


Aubade

by Terminallydepraved



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Explicit Sexual Content, Historical Accuracy, HxHBB17, Internalized Misogyny, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Norse AU, Sex Magic, Violence, Witches, jarl!silva, volva!chrollo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-19 01:01:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 58,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10628889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terminallydepraved/pseuds/Terminallydepraved
Summary: The job of a King is to protect his people, but when a mysterious plague begins ravaging his territory, Silva realizes that sometimes a king must rely on forces greater than himself (and greater than his pride) to protect what is his- Even if that involves dragging a skinny, male völva from the executioner’s block and into his mead hall.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution to the 2017 HunterxHunter Big Bang! It took a long time to write but I'm very happy with what I've done. A lot of research and thought went into this and I'd like to address some of the content you're about to read here, just so there are no nasty surprises or confusion about this piece before you go into it.
> 
> This is not a romance. This is more or less a social commentary on the historical realities of Old Norse culture. There are instances of non-con (attempted, never realized- every sexual encounter that occurs in this story is consensual) and many instances of misogynistic violence/dialogue directed at Chrollo for being a völva. I won't lie. It's not always an easy read, but I think that the story is good and that it's an important criticism of toxic masculinity in this (and by extension, our own) culture. Please know your own limits and keep in mind the intent behind this work. 
> 
> I strive to make my historical works accurate and educational as well as entertaining, so feel free to send me a comment on here or on tumblr if there are any questions regarding what I've written. Updates will be made daily (or twice daily should I receive a lot of comments). 
> 
> Please enjoy this and my wonderful art!
> 
> Yougei: http://yougei.tumblr.com/post/161334293104/all-my-art-of-terminallydepraveds-amazing-fic
> 
> Keatish: https://keatish.tumblr.com/post/161308225595/i-dreamt-a-dream-last-night-of-silk-and-fine
> 
> Happyclappyhippydrift: http://happyclappyhippydrift.tumblr.com/post/161367789815/sorry-for-being-late-but-heres-my

The cold embrace of a jail cell was exactly that— cold. Chrollo’s teeth chattered as his body trembled violently, the freezing metal sapping what little warmth he could still boast of preserving given his horrid surroundings. The rags he’d been allowed to keep did little to hold the cold at bay. The incessant draft carried in every time someone opened the prison door cut through the scraps of cloth like bladed gusts of ill-intent. The prison held that at least in spades. Nothing here was kind, and nothing here would care if he froze to death on the grimy, dingy floor. 

But, then again, considering Chrollo’s life, he couldn’t say that much was different outside of the prison either in that regard. The thought soured his already low mood. 

He longed for his cloak. He longed for his boots. Most of all, he longed for freedom, and for the forest he never should have left. Chrollo clenched his eyes shut, burying his face in his arms. What a mistake it had been, getting so comfortable in a town. Mother had always said not to trust the kindness of strangers. Like everything else she’d ever said, her wisdom was far more potent after death. And it seemed that this time, Chrollo might have pushed his luck too far. Given the present situation, he’d probably be seeing her soon. Be it by the executioner’s hand or the cold, Chrollo could tell that the end was nigh.

The telltale sound of boots against a wooden floor signaled the next burst of icy air. Even knowing it was coming, Chrollo still shook hard enough to ache, his jaw sore from the continuous impact of his chattering teeth. “It’s in here,” the jailer’s familiar snarl said, wheedling and sycophantic. “Just say the word and I’ll end its miserable life myself, my liege.”

So, he had guests, Chrollo thought, blinking away at the wind that stung his eyes. Nobility, even. What an honor. Some waited their whole lives to gain audience with the Jarl. Perhaps if more knew that shouldering the blame for an epidemic would grant it, Chrollo could have avoided this miserable cold and let someone else play scapegoat. He didn’t bother to look up when he heard them approach his cell, and he sincerely hoped they could sense his apathy. 

The jailer, a short, stout man of middle age and ill-repute, rattled the bars of Chrollo’s cage. It hadn’t been him who threw Chrollo in here, but he was Chrollo’s most frequent visitor by far.  “Wake up, vermin,” he hissed, and Chrollo could smell the stink of sweat and ale on him from a yard away. “Your time is up.”

Chrollo didn’t even lift his head. What else could they do to him? When awaiting death, there was little left to fear. The jailer growled like a beast, the clang of metal signaling the cell being opened. He hadn’t thought the day of his execution would be so soon. Knowing the jailer, he expected to suffer the cold at least another few days. 

“Stand aside,” a different voice said, and Chrollo figured that must be the Jarl. The sound of his footsteps fell heavy and measured, and, if Chrollo cared enough to look at him, he was sure he’d see a man well within his prime, the picture of battle-bred virility. Everything Chrollo  _ wasn’t,  _ as the jailer was so fond of telling him. The king hovered over Chrollo, his presence alone enough to block the howling wind. 

“Don’t stand so close, my liege,” the jailer warned, his own voice still on the other side of the cell door. Fear and disgust rang cleanly through the filth of the prison. “It took six men to bring it here.”

A beat of silence passed, and then the king began to laugh. “This small thing required six men?” he laughed, and Chrollo clenched his hands into fists, giving in to the urge to look up. “How old are you, he-witch?” the king asked, his blue eyes as cold as the ice on the walls of the cell. “You hardly look a threat.”

“Old enough to be blamed for your own incompetence,  _ my liege, _ ” Chrollo snapped back, the cold and the hunger and the pain of his imprisonment too much to simply bear any longer. The Jarl was tall and as broad as a shield, the width of his shoulders enough to block out the entirety of the spitting jailer behind him. “Kill me if you want; it won’t end the plague.”

“Why you filthy fucking whelp—” the jailer began, but the king stood between him and Chrollo, his frozen eyes harder than gems. The long mane of his white-blond hair flowed like water over his shoulders, adding to the intimidating presence he commanded. “My liege,” the jailer tried, straining at the bit to hurt Chrollo. “It has no right to speak to you like that.”

“ _ It  _ has a name,” Chrollo hissed right back. If they were going to kill him anyway, he’d say what he wanted to say to whoever he wanted to say it to. Jarl or not, he’d make his anger known. 

“And what is it?” the Jarl said, cutting Chrollo off before he could spit out his next insult. The king sank into a comfortable crouch, still so massive that he towered over Chrollo, even like this. The folds of his cloak and mantle stood out starkly against the thresh-scattered stone. “What is your name?”

No one had bothered to ask, even when he’d been grabbed and thrown into the cell all those weeks ago. Biting his lip, Chrollo stared at the king. “Why,” he said flatly, his distrust palpable. “What do you want? Are you here to kill me?”

The Jarl didn’t frown, but his brow furrowed. For a moment, Chrollo half expect to be slapped or hit. Instead, the man let out a breath. “That remains to be seen,” the king said, saying it like it caused him pain to answer. “Do you know who I am, he-witch?”

Chrollo clenched his hands at the moniker. “I’m a völva,” Chrollo said brazenly, waiting for the man to hit him. A few of the guards had when he’d said the same thing to them. No one liked him using the word, but he was what he was and he refused to let them change him. Not now. Not ever. “And yes, I know who you are. Jarl Silva of the Northern Hills. King of a land dying of plague. You’ve finally found an enemy you couldn’t kill with force alone.”

“Yes,” Silva gritted, his gaze hard. 

“I didn’t cause it,” Chrollo added, though he didn’t know why he bothered. “No matter what your men may think, it’s not my doing.”

If he believed him, he didn’t make any indication of it. Silva stared at him, and Chrollo had the feeling that he was being assessed. He held his chin high and stared right back. 

“And you know who did?”

Chrollo scoffed, crossing his arms and glaring at the floor. There were blood stains beneath thresh, both from him and from long ago. “It wasn’t me,” he muttered. “And it won’t end if you kill me.” A curse like that was far bigger than just one person, and Chrollo would have to harbor a considerable grudge to try and create something of that extent on his own. 

Silva hummed, and Chrollo ignored how the man stared at him as if he could see what he was thinking. “You act like you’re only up for execution because of the plague charges. You know that you’re still guilty, even if you aren’t responsible for what is befalling the kingdom.” Chrollo grunted when Silva grabbed him by the hair, forcing him to look the Jarl in the eye. Silva’s eyes were cold, though his voice was still so level. 

“What do you want me to say?” Chrollo demanded, baring his teeth. “I’ve tried to keep away from people like you. All I want is to be left alone. Kill me if you have to, but it won’t solve your problems.” 

The man smirked, releasing Chrollo’s hair with a rough jerk of his hand. His wrists were heavy with bracelets and witch-braids, speaking to his considerable wealth and prestige. Chrollo’s eyes narrowed when he caught sight of them, but he said nothing. Slowly, Silva stood up, turning on his heel to take in the jailer who had been glowering silently, vehemently. “Get his things,” Silva ordered, brushing off his knees. “I’m taking him back with me.”

Chrollo was on his feet in an instant, though he really didn’t feel up to moving. “Excuse me?” he shouted, Silva already halfway out of the cell. 

“What?” Silva asked, a brow raised beneath his bright hair. “Would you prefer to stay and freeze to death?”

“I would prefer knowing what you want of me!” Chrollo felt light headed, the anger quickening his breath, the wall supporting his shaky legs. Too much abuse and too little food left him woefully weak, and he knew well enough that he sounded anything but forceful. Was he going to kill him now? No. They wouldn’t bother giving him back his things if he were to be slaughtered like a mad dog. 

“You look like a cornered rabbit,” the Jarl laughed, and the jailer sulked back with his arms ladened with Chrollo’s confiscated belongings. “Here,” Silva said, taking the garments and items in hand and tossing them at the floor in front of Chrollo. “Get dressed. I need a völva, so you might as well look the part.”

He didn’t know if it was the malnutrition or the exhaustion sapping his ability to keep up. Thankfully, he wasn’t the only one struggling. The jailer looked as lost as Chrollo, gaping at Silva as if he thought he’d been bewitched by the he-witch in the cell. Chrollo snatched up his thick blue cloak and wrapped it around his shoulders, eager for the warmth he’d been denied. Whatever the reason was, he was thankful to have that back at least.

Silva stared at him, assessing what he saw. He huffed out a laugh, his hands on his hips. “You almost look like a proper völva when you’re wearing that,” he remarked, but it still sounded too patronizing to be sincere. 

“Maybe that’s because I am one,” Chrollo said, eyes hard. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m saving my kingdom. Get up and get your things. We’re leaving.” Silva turned on his heel, pausing by the door of the cell for only a moment more. “Unless you’d rather remain here and be executed, that is.”

Chrollo grimaced and wished he had the strength to make the man respect him. All he could manage was to grit his teeth and grab his staff, shouldering his bag. It was curiously empty, but he should have figured that it would have been looted the moment he was thrown in the cell. The jailer stood at the mouth of the cell, glaring hotly, his nostrils flaring when Chrollo slipped past him after the Jarl. 

“Thank you for the gracious accommodations,” Chrollo said with mocking sweetness, hoping sincerely and fiercely that the man would choke on his on swill. 

“You’ll meet your end once the Jarl has finished with you,” the horrid man sneered. “Abominations will always get what’s coming to them, you fuckin’ beast.”

_ And those who anger a völva will rue the day they were so blind,  _ Chrollo thought, turning his back on the man. Chrollo could not curse an entire kingdom, but one pathetic jailer was a simple enough task. He let his staff tap the floor as he walked, steeping the building with his ill will. It would spread, he knew, like a miasma. Before long, the jailer would know the torments he’d unleash tenfold. 

With a small, pleased smile on his face, Chrollo made for the door, ignoring the jeers and vulgarities shouted at him by the other prisoners as he passed them by. They too would know the folly of their actions. It was only a shame that Chrollo wouldn’t be around to see it for himself. 

Chrollo contented himself by savoring the moment he crossed the threshold to the outside world. The fresh air that greeted him outside was sweeter than it had any right to be, given that Chrollo had just traded one cell for another of a different making. Silva didn’t seem to pay him any mind as he made for his horse, expecting Chrollo to follow dutifully behind. 

It would be so easy to make a run for the forest just behind the jail. So easy. The ground was smooth and the wind would favor Chrollo. The trees were too close together for Silva to follow on horseback, and Chrollo had lived his entire life within the embrace of the woods. He knew where to hide and how to make the trees his allies. Chrollo bit his lip and lagged behind the oblivious Jarl, edging closer towards the forest’s edge. If he could manage to buy himself a few yards of a head start, there would be no chance of Silva catching him by the time he realized that Chrollo was gone. 

“If you even think of making a run for it,” Silva called over his shoulder, not pausing for a moment as he readied his saddle for mounting, “I will make you regret ever stepping a foot outside of that cell.”

Chrollo froze in place, a twin wave of fear and anger washing down his spine at the threat. “What makes you think that I would run?” he called back, crossing his arms to make it look as if he hadn’t even considered escape. “Why would I possibly want to run away from a man who has told me nothing about what he intends to do with me?”

Silva laughed, loudly and heartily, and then swung easily into his saddle with a grace born of long habit and familiarity with his mount. The dappled grey horse trotted casually over to Chrollo and the Jarl looked down on him cockily, that insufferable smirk still on his face. “You have a mouth on you, don’t you, little he-witch?” he remarked, circling Chrollo like the ass he was. “It’s no wonder you’ve made an enemy of any who approach you.”

Baring his teeth, Chrollo held his head high, refusing to be cowed by the even more pronounced height difference. “I have a  _ name, _ ” Chrollo hissed, shoving past the man on his horse to make off down the road. 

“Well, you’ve yet to tell me it,  _ he-witch _ ,” Silva laughed, following for a moment. He pulled ahead easily, though, as a horse was always faster than a man without. 

“And you’ve yet to tell me what you intend to do with me, so I think we’re more than fair,” Chrollo snapped. The sun was bright but the day was a bit chilly, and being angry kept him warmer than being kind would. Chrollo wrapped his cloak tighter around himself, forcing himself to walk abreast of the horse. He was so tired. So, so tired. Would Silva give him something to eat? He couldn’t recall the last time he ate more than moldy bread or drank more than stagnant, tepid water. 

He was torn away from his thoughts by Silva staring at him intently. Chrollo frowned and stared right back, refusing to balk. Like this, in the light of day and away from the stink and dark and shroud of the prison, he could see that the Jarl was older than him by perhaps fifteen or more years. His eyes were a cold blue, his face sharp and chiseled like stone. Chrollo chewed the inside of his cheek and glared at the man, daring him to break the silent contest first. 

“Tell me your name,” Silva ordered, using every foot of height he had to loom imperiously over Chrollo.

“Tell me what you want with me,” Chrollo said right back. “You are no king of mine. I have no reason to bow down to a power far beneath the ones I serve.”

Silva’s lips curled in displeasure and he nudged at his horse’s flanks, increasing the pace to make Chrollo jog to keep up. “You play with fire with a tongue like that,” he warned, and Chrollo could hear the anger threaded through his words. “I will humor you this one time, but speak to me like that again and I will cut you down where you stand.”

Chrollo was anything but intimidated. He didn’t care about his life, so they were as good as empty words. But, Silva looked down on him expectantly and Chrollo rolled his eyes. “Yes, my liege. Of course.” 

Instead of ruminating on the sincerity of Chrollo’s acceptance, Silva pushed onto the answer he’d been dangling over Chrollo’s head since the moment he threw the clothes at him. “You already know well enough of the plague,” he began, glancing at Chrollo with a stern look on his brow. “It came upon up suddenly and swiftly, scouring the kingdom of its subjects. There has been no cure, and there has been no sign of the sickness leaving this land.”

The sun seemed to move in time to his words, the sky growing dark for a moment as a swatch of clouds enshadowed the land. Chrollo struggled to keep up with Silva’s pace, unwilling to show any weakness in front of him. “I saw it,” Chrollo said, thinking back to the village he’d been apprehended in. That poor couple near the edge of the settlement had always treated him kindly, looking past who he was to appreciate what he could do. The husband had taken ill from the sickness and Chrollo had done what he could to ease his passing. “It’s strong magic behind it. Stronger than I’ve ever seen.”

“Did you know that it kills some but not others?” Silva asked, brow raised. “That in a village it may take a few or take them all, but no matter where it may be, it takes the kingdom’s völva?”

Chrollo stopped jogging and Silva had to turn the horse around or risk leaving him behind. “What did you just say?” Chrollo asked, looking up at the stone-faced Jarl. 

“Every völva in my kingdom is dead,” Silva said grimly. “Dead or fled.”

“Except for me.”

Silva wrinkled his nose and huffed. “Every proper völva,” he clarified, and that just rankled. 

It all became clear then. As clear as crystal. Chrollo looked up at the Jarl with a glare hot enough to burn. “So, you heard about a  _ he-witch  _ rotting in one of your prisons and came to see if you could use him instead?” Chrollo asked, his hands in fists at his sides. He would be the kingdom’s last resort. That would be his luck, and here he was, stuck in this role. 

“You know,” Silva grinned cheekily, resuming his quick pace and expecting Chrollo to follow. “You shouldn’t call yourself that. Your name will do just fine.”

“What do you intend to do with me?” Chrollo asked instead, refusing to divulge anything until he had his own answers. “Do you plan for me to fix your problems and then return to that cell to await my execution? Or will you just kill me yourself once I’ve done what you couldn’t?” 

Silva had the audacity to look surprised at his vitriol. “Kill you?” he laughed, and he had to look behind him since Chrollo was struggling now to keep up. “Why, if you do what I want you to do, I’ll give you your freedom. Your existence may disgust me and the rest of civilized society, but I can tell just from looking at you that you’d hardly comply with my wishes if death was all you had to look forward to.”

That sounded almost too good to be true. The Jarl glanced down at him expectantly and Chrollo wondered what he saw on his face. Hope? Frustration? He wasn’t sure what he felt but he hoped that whatever it was, it wasn’t obvious. 

“I think you have something to tell me now,” Silva led. 

“Do I?” Chrollo said breezily, looking out at the countryside around them. They had left the forests behind, coming instead upon rolling hills and grassland. He didn’t think he’d ever been to these parts before. At least, not since he’d been left alone. “I can’t imagine what I might have to tell you.”

“You’re insufferable, aren’t you?” The Jarl sounded anything but entertained. “I could beat it out of you, he-witch.”

Threats weren’t going to work on him and the sooner Silva got that through his head, the better off they’d both be. “Why don’t you just focus on leading us,” Chrollo offered up instead, and Silva tensed his jaw and narrowed his eyes, more than unhappy with him. There was no more conversation though. The silence overtook them both. 

Over the course of time, perhaps a half hour, perhaps longer, the pace increased. Chrollo wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep up. His legs burned and his muscles cried out, his empty stomach clenching painfully on nothing. Silva was saying something, or at least, Chrollo thought he was. It was hard to tell with the sound of rushing waves in his ears, the smooth road beneath his feet churning like an angry sea. The horse was ahead of him now, leaving him behind, and Silva didn’t seem to notice in the slightest. Chrollo gritted his teeth and breathed heavily through his nose, pushing himself to move faster. 

It was getting harder to see. Did another cloud cover the sun? Chrollo stumbled but caught himself, pushing himself to keep moving. One foot, then the next. His vision swam, his heart pounded, and Chrollo found himself  falling before he could say anything to Silva. Thick, impermeable black clouds swallowed everything in sight and in the time it took to blink, Chrollo was laid out in the dirt, his side aching from the fall and his head filled with cotton. Sweat chilled his skin, a burning heat overcoming him. 

“Damnit!” an angry voice cursed, but Chrollo couldn’t bring himself to lift his head to look. “You brat, it’s been barely an hour and you’re already causing me problems.” A hand grabbed Chrollo by the collar of his cloak, lifting him like a sack of flour. “Can you stand? Come on, talk!”

Rough fingers took him by the chin but Chrollo couldn’t see through the fog. “I’m...I’m fine,” he tried to say, but his voice was so weak. Had Silva dismounted? Chrollo’s knees gave out and he fell an inch before an arm like an iron bar wrapped around his back, hoisting him up and draping him over the back of the horse. “I can walk,” Chrollo mumbled, but the moment he tried to squirm, a wide hand pushed on his back, pinning him in place as easily as if Silva were holding down a kitten. 

“Obviously you can’t,” the Jarl grunted, Chrollo having missed entirely when the man remounted. The horse began to walk and Chrollo yelped weakly as he was jostled up and down with the movements of its hindquarters. 

Well, perhaps Chrollo could have if the prison had fed him more than a few mouthfuls a day. The thought of food sent an ache through his stomach, painful enough that he winced. The dull ache of hitting the ground hadn’t eased in the slightest and when Chrollo lifted his head to look at Silva, another wave of lightheadedness passed over him, nearly sending him under again. “How long?” he managed to groan, petting the horse’s haunch as if it would soothe away his dizziness. 

“Another hour. Sit still and rest,” Silva ordered, not bothering to turn and look at him as he spoke. “You’re no good to me if you’re dead.”

That was horribly offensive for multiple reasons, but Chrollo was hardly in any position to complain. For the first time in a long time, he did as he was told, closing his eyes and giving in to the rhythmic sway of the horse’s stride. 

Back and forth. Back and forth. The swaying filled his head like the ocean’s waves, overlaying with his memories until he was just a child again chasing after his mother. Her long hair filled the blackness behind his eyes, and he dreamed of how it would swing in its braid behind her back, tickling his cheek as she carried him. Of how she always smelled of the herbs they’d pick together and of the wild energy that ran through their shared blood. Why had he left the forest? He knew that he could trust no one, but he’d still tried regardless. And here he was now, stomach empty, freedom gone, and his life once again dictated by the whims of another. Chrollo buried his face into the coarse horsehair, wishing that his thoughts would quiet for just a minute. With his eyes closed and his body weak, sleep came swiftly, if fitfully. 

The horse eventually came to a stop, but that wasn’t was roused Chrollo. What woke him fully was Silva grabbing him by the collar again and hoisting him up, setting him astride the horse in a show of strength that Chrollo was sure was meant either to impress or intimidate. Chrollo blinked tiredly at the Jarl and then at his surroundings, noting the wooden fortifications and the grand structure of the mead hall just ahead of them. 

“Was that really an hour?” he asked hoarsely, aching for a drink. 

“It was, so wake up and get ready to move,” Silva told him. “I won’t be carrying you inside.” But, even as he said that, he was already reaching for Chrollo again, ostensibly to help him off the horse. 

If there was one thing Chrollo couldn’t stand, it was being patronized. He was going to walk through the gates under his own power, or he would give up what little pride he had left trying. Brushing Silva’s hands off of him, he slipped off the horse and landed heavily on his feet, swaying only a little. The rest had done him wonders and his staff would do the rest. 

“After you,” Chrollo said pointedly, watching Silva dismount as well. The man just rolled his eyes and handed the reins to an attendant before crossing the courtyard to the closed doors of the hall. 

Chrollo had never been in the mead hall of a Jarl. His mother had, and she would recount stories of her journeys sometimes, of how she was called upon by kings across the lands. Her power was respected and renown and she would tell him in the late hours of the night, when sleep eluded him and the whispers of the old ones whispered too loudly to ignore, of how the tableware glittered, of the rich cloths decorating the walls and of the luxurious foods served freely to those in attendance. The moment he entered the space, he was at once reminded of the stories, that sense of wonder he held back then the same as he felt now. 

The ceiling was vaulted, towering overhead high enough to make him dizzy when he looked up. The place was full of life and laughter, the thanes of the Jarl already seated at the long tables and partaking of the feast they’d been provided. Women in beautiful gowns poured mead and wine, the goblets and pitchers polished and brilliant in the smoky air. Chrollo’s stomach gave an abortive lurch, the scent of cooked meat nearly too much to handle given the state he’d been kept in at the prison. 

That hunger disappeared though the second Silva’s presence was made known. All eyes turned towards them, the men and women alike pausing in their revelry to greet their king with hearty bellows and cheers. Chrollo ducked behind Silva’s bulk as surreptitiously as he could. Völvas were held in the highest esteem possible, always granted a seat of honor in these sorts of social situations, but Chrollo doubted that he’d receive the same sort of response once everyone realized  _ what  _ they had in their midst. 

Though, an optimistic voice in his head whispered, perhaps they would think differently when they realize the role Chrollo had come to play. 

“My liege!” a beast of a man roared, kicking his bench back to stand up and meet Silva halfway. “You old dog! Come, eat! Drink!”

“Othere!” Silva bellowed, and Chrollo nearly flinched at the volume. “You wasted no time in making yourself at home. Eat yourself any fatter and you’ll break your horse’s back!” A rumble of laughter sounded throughout the hall, nearly as loud as thunder. Chrollo bit his lip and felt very, very conspicuous. 

Othere caught sight of him within a minute of greeting Silva, his beard not so large that it hid his curious frown. Chrollo shifted under the scrutiny, holding his breath as the man’s eyes lingered on his fur-lined cloak and on the staff in his hands. “Silva,” Othere called, breaking Silva away from greeting some other group that had come up to say hello. “What is this... _ thing _ ?”

Chrollo nearly flinched but he held it back. Silva laughed and separated himself from the attendants and thanes, sidling up beside Othere, ostensibly to take in Chrollo together. “That, my friend, is the last option we have,” he said, patting Othere on his meaty shoulder. “All of the real völva are dead, so unless you would enjoy learning some magic to get us out of this bind, you’ll put up with the sight of this he-witch for awhile.” 

He had to wonder if it would have been worth it to tell Silva his name, if only so he wouldn’t introduce him as that slur. Othere grimaced like the sight of Chrollo alone ruined his appetite. “Almost too pretty to be a man, isn’t he?” he commented and Silva laughed heartily, clapping him on the shoulder before wandering off towards the tables. It left Chrollo standing alone before Othere, and with the man still eyeing him, Chrollo took that as his cue to make himself scarce. 

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said quietly, walking past the man and towards the only place that didn’t have a drunken reveler laid out and laughing. At the far end of the hall was a fireplace, built of stone and wood and large enough that it might just hide him if he tucked up behind the hearth. It would be better to hide than be on display, of that he was now sure. Some might mark his presence as one of vile offense, but he could see that others saw it as an opportunity. 

Chrollo may despise the stigma attached to male völva, but he knew well enough what was associated with those who performed magic outside of the accepted gender. To them, he’d thrown away his manhood to take up occupancy in the women’s domain. To some, that meant that Chrollo was tantamount to a woman. To others, that meant he was something worse. Something that could be used and abused and treated no better than an animal meant only for breeding.

He kept his head up and focused on the fire, sparing no concern for the eyes that followed him as he passed the tables. Whispers rose and already he could hear the nasty comments. In a room this big, he wanted to shout at them that they had plenty of other things to occupy themselves with. The tables were nearly bowed with the weight of the food upon them and men with instruments strummed away as they sang of past battles and hard-earned valor. Chrollo knew he wasn’t welcome to partake of either the feast or the pleasantries, but the rest had no such qualms. 

The minute he reached the far end of the hall, he sat himself on the stone far enough from the feast that the tempting smell didn’t eat at his already pained stomach. A few of the men still glared at him as if Chrollo might forget that he wasn’t welcome if they stopped staring for even a moment. Chrollo tried not to pay them any mind, instead focusing on keeping warm in the drafty room. 

Though he’d never before been in a Jarl’s mead hall, he had a sort of inclination that told him that if he had ever imagined one, it would look pretty similar to this. The air was filled with a thick, almost greasy smoke from the tallow candles and wood fire behind him. Hunting dogs were lazing about on the floor beneath the tables, begging for scraps from the drunken thanes and tipsy servants. Would the servants be kinder than the rest, he wondered? A few strayed towards him, their platters piled high with food and drink alike. If he asked quietly, would one give him something to eat? 

“Oh, is the little he-witch hungry?” one of the men crowed, catching Chrollo before he could look away from a young servant girl’s basket filled to the brim with bread. He was tall and stout with ruddy red hair and a face that looked more beard than skin. When he stood up, those around him took notice, some egging him on while others bawled at him to sit his ass back down before he knocked something over. “No, no!” he shouted, casting off the hands that yanked at his sleeves. “I’m going to go feed the scrawny little brat!”

Chrollo didn’t know if he should get ready to run or if that would only make things worse. He sat up straighter as the man stomped his way closer, in his fist clenched a rushed handful he’d snatched off his plate. Would this be antagonistic, or would this be something kind? When the man loomed over him, a drunken, cruel grin on his face, Chrollo knew he’d found his answer. 

What was thrown to him was nearly worse than what he’d been given at the prison. A hard heel of bread, the chewed fat torn off of a strip of meat; they fell to the floor before him like scraps thrown down to feed a dog. Chrollo looked upon the offerings and then up at the grinning, drunken thane who looked as if he’d told a joke and expected even Chrollo to laugh at it. It’d been foolish to think that this man might have ever been acting out of kindness. 

“What’s wrong?” the man jeered. “You look like you want to complain about something.”

Chrollo chewed the inside of his cheek and somehow managed to smile. There was plenty to complain about. The taunts and insults aside, this was the absolute worst way to treat a visiting völva. His mother had been so well respected that kings themselves would give up their seats to her as a sign of deference. Food would be plentiful and no man, king or otherwise, would dare view themselves as above her. It was the height of folly to ask a völva for aid and then receive them poorly. Chrollo didn’t need to read into things to know that here they considered him nothing more than a beast to be used, abused, and ridiculed. 

It hurt for a moment to think of how his mother would feel seeing him like this. Though, to be fair, it always hurt to think about her. Chrollo clenched his fingers in the fabric of his cloak. She’d kept him in the forest to avoid this sort of treatment, but he’d ignored her warnings and fallen into the thick of what she’d always feared. He had no one to blame but himself and nothing to do but endure. 

The man was still waiting for his answer and Chrollo sat up straight and regarded him coolly. “It’s not my duty to teach you common sense. If you think there is nothing to complain about, then what befalls you is of your own doing,” Chrollo said simply. 

“Are you threatening me?” he snarled, his bearded face contorting into an expression of intoxicated rage. He stood even closer and  towered over Chrollo, drawing the attention of some, if not all, of the hall’s revelers. “You fucking bitch. Do you think you’re better than me, you  _ argr  _ piece of shit?!”

The word rang in the air, hovering above their heads like a building roll of thunder just waiting to crack. Silence fell and Chrollo refused to flinch. He’d been called worse. It didn’t matter, he told himself, since he knew what he was even when these animals tried to tell him otherwise. He kept his head up and stared the man straight in the eye, refusing to let him look away. Those who were listening watched with avid eyes, no doubt waiting for this to come to blows. 

With a composed expression and a blink of his eyes, Chrollo gave the man a small smile. “My name is Chrollo,” he said tightly, “and I don’t have to think on what I already know.” He reached for the hunk of bread and narrowly avoided the man’s foot as it came stomping down, grinding the scraps into the dirty thresh beneath the heel of his boot. 

It was when the man spat at him, the thick globule of ale-soured saliva hitting Chrollo’s cheek, that Silva finally caught notice enough to care to intervene. “Oskarr! Get your ass over here and leave the he-witch be,” he ordered, and Chrollo looked over to him, seeing the Jarl seated at the head of his table, a woman on his knee and his drink in hand. “He’s no good to us dead.”

Oskarr. An ugly name for an ugly man. Chrollo smiled up at the man and wiped the filth from his cheek. “You heard him,” Chrollo said, savoring the way Oskarr fumed, his face red and mottled from the drink. 

“Psh, fuck you, bitch,” he slurred, turning with one final grind of his heel into the ruined food. “You won’t be useful forever.” A rumble of laughter punctuated his words, the rest of the men who had been eagerly listening now showing their support. They raised a few more jeers, mostly aimed at Chrollo’s stature and his manhood, but the mead flowed and Silva soon became the center of attention, leaving Chrollo as alone as he could be in a room full of those who hated him. 

That was just fine with him. He looked wistfully for a moment at the dirty mush of bread, but he knew that even as hungry as he was, he’d rather withstand the hunger than be seen scrambling at the ground for a trampled piece of food. Chrollo didn’t have much use for pride, but amongst these men, he knew it was the only force they respected. With one last glance towards the gathered men, he shifted closer to the roaring fireplace, knowing without asking that this would be where he slept. 

Even by the fire it was still frightfully cold. Chrollo wrapped himself in his cloak and thought of summer, the sound of his mother’s laugh, and the warmth of the sun against his cheek. The stone may be hard and cold, but he knew he’d had it worse. His belly may be empty, but bounty came to those who hungered. Chrollo would have his life back so long as he just persevered.


	2. Chapter 2

It was his stomach that woke him first, and then the overwhelming loudness of a hundred men snoring and shifting in their sleep. Chrollo opened his eyes upon the expansive hall, the din of sleeping men reverberating like low thunder in the distance. He sat up and rubbed the exhaustion from his eyes, biting his lip as his stomach ached painfully. Would there still be food on those long tables? With everyone still sleeping off their drink from the night before, now might be the only time he could fill his stomach without being assaulted. 

Summoning up what little strength he still had, Chrollo hoisted himself onto his feet. Shivers rattled through his body, the stone floor as cold as ice after a night of sleeping on it. He pulled his cloak around himself tighter, his stomach giving out another loud protest. Even from his spot by the fire, he could see that though the men had long retired from their feasting, the table was still strewn with the scraps and mess they had left behind. Chrollo bit his lip and walked quietly towards the nearest table, snatching up what little was left that he could save. 

Bread, mostly, was what he was able to find. There were scraps of meat from a cow or perhaps a swine, but they lay congealed in their own fat, cold and hard and unappetizing, even to someone as hungry as Chrollo. He moved along the table, hunting through the detritus for more bread, shoving the smaller pieces into his mouth and swallowing as quickly as he could for fear of being found. How long would the men stay asleep? The sun was rising, Chrollo’s internal sense told him. They wouldn’t be asleep for much longer. 

In his blind rush to fill his stomach and his bag, he was deaf to the footsteps. Large hands slammed down on either side of Chrollo, pinning him to the table as a wave of stale-ale breath ruffled his hair from behind. Chrollo, nearly choking on his mouthful of dry bread, let out a yelp. His face burned a second later when he felt an unmistakable hardness prodding his lower back. 

“Little bitches like you have to work for their food,” the man slurred, still drunk from the night before. He ground his cock against Chrollo, groaning gutturally into his ear. 

Chrollo didn’t know what to feel. Shock, definitely. Anger? To an extent. He should have expected this to happen, and he hated that he had let himself grow complacent just because he thought he was alone. With a hard shove, he threw himself back, knocking the man off balance enough to allow Chrollo to slip out of his hold. He recognized this man vaguely from the night before as one of the revelers who had flocked to Silva upon arrival. Disgust rose up even as the man spun around, his fury slow but evident. 

“Don’t touch me,” Chrollo said, quieter than he wanted, but the risk of waking the others was too real to ignore. He could handle one drunken man, but a hall full was more than he wanted to think about. 

The man’s lopsided grin sent a shudder down Chrollo’s spine. He lumbered closer, using the table to support himself. “Get back here,” he ordered, his eyes red and bloodshot. “Things like you are only good for one thing.”

He didn’t need to say what that thing was. Stomach churning, heart pounding, Chrollo backed up another few steps. Where was Silva? Would he even care that this was happening? Chrollo couldn’t imagine his situation getting any better if he were to attack this man, even if it was justified. “Stop,” he said, a little louder. “If you come any closer, I’ll hurt you.”

“Oh, you’ll hurt me?” the man laughed, his shirt stained with sweat and ale and grease from the night before coming untucked the more he moved. “The little  _ argr  _ bitch will hurt me.” He shuffled closer and Chrollo backed up, right into a wall. “Then hurt me, bitch. You don’t have the fuckin’ balls.”

“Ivar!” 

Everything seemed to freeze. The man, Chrollo’s heart, the motes of dust trailing through the patches of sunlight that made it through the thick thatch of the roof. Chrollo looked past the man’s shoulder to see Silva striding through the hall, his hair a mass of thick braids and his cold eyes as hard as ice. A note of relief passed through Chrollo’s body, loud and debilitating. 

Ivar turned, eyes hazy as they settled on the approaching Jarl. “What is it, my liege?” he slurred, resting his ass on the table before he stumbled to the ground. “Did you want it first?”

Silva just rolled his eyes, shoving past his thane to loom over Chrollo himself. “It’s been less than a day, and you’re already causing problems,” he said, crossing his thick arms over his broad chest. “I don’t suffer threats to my men well, he-witch.”

The anger came back to him in full force. “I don’t suffer threats to my body well either,” Chrollo hissed, balling his hands into fists. “Tell your men to keep their hands to themselves if they don’t want to lose them. If you can’t keep them in line, then it’s not my fault when they end up dismembered.”

Ivar, who had been standing by and leaning against the table to pick at the scraps leftover, looked up at that and made another lunge for Chrollo. Silva stopped him with an arm, holding the drunken man back easily. “Come on, Silva,” Ivar grunted, red eyes glaring. “I won’t let you take that sort of talk from some shitty little bitch.”

“My name is Chrollo,” Chrollo said stonily. 

“And I don’t give two shits about the name of some  _ argr  _ slut!” Ivar shouted. The sound of grumbling men followed and Chrollo knew that his voice had woken up most, if not all, of the hall. 

“Ivar, shut up and go sober up,” Silva sighed, shoving the man back with a hard push. “And you,” he said, turning his attention back on Chrollo. Cold blue eyes narrowed, the angles of his face hard and unforgiving in the morning light. “Did you eat? Is that why he’s so pissed?”

Chrollo crossed his arms, hiding his full bag behind him with an inconspicuous lean. “I was trying to,” he said, his stomach still far from full. “Until he came up to rut on me like a dog in heat. Control your men. I’m not what they call me and I won’t be treated as if I am.” 

When Silva rolled his eyes, Chrollo wanted nothing more than to lash out at him too, even if he did save him. “Don’t be so sensitive,” he huffed, turning to go kick awake the men who still had yet to stir. “And finish eating. We’re heading out as soon as I wake up these drunkards.”

_ Don’t be so sensitive. _ The words rang inside his skull, and when Chrollo sat himself down at the table, bread in hand, every mouthful he took tasted like ash. He knew what they were calling him. He knew how horrible it was to be branded  _ argr.  _ Most men would fight to the death to prove they were anything but, with the law on their side if they chose to lash out against the one who dared insult them with it. Chrollo swallowed a dry bite of bread, his shoulders falling the more the men began to talk. He couldn’t shake the feeling that more like Ivar would come at him and that Silva would just brush it off. 

_ Don’t be so sensitive.  _ Chrollo stopped eating, shoving what he didn’t finish into his bag. If that’s how Silva wanted to play this, then fine. The next time it happened, Chrollo wouldn’t hesitate. He’d do what any of the men would do and fight back. If they lost their lives in the pursuit of debasing him, then that was their choice to make. He was here to end the plague and buy his freedom. No one said he had to put up with this abuse while he did it. 

“Get your asses up and in line, men!” Silva ordered, his voice booming through the hall. Chrollo watched him kick at a motionless lump on the floor, the man jumping to attention with a drunken and garbled groan. “We’ve had word sent about another village that’s been afflicted with plague. On your feet! It’s time to work for your drink!”

Chrollo’s chewing slowed. Another village. How many had there been so far? He lived so detached from society that all he knew of the plague was what was told in hushed whispers by those who didn’t mind talking to him or were too wrapped up in their own business to pay him any thought. Chrollo watched as the hall began to fill with the sound of waking men, the shuffle of fabric and clank of metal as they fastened on their weapons and armor and swore lowly at the hangovers hammering in their heads. What would these men be able to do in a plague village? 

“Chrollo!” Silva shouted from across the room, and Chrollo startled so much that he dropped the bread in his hand. “Get your ass up too. I won’t be carrying you again if you decide to faint!”

A rumble of laughter passed through the hall, and Chrollo’s cheeks burned. He’d only passed out because of hunger and because Silva refused to slow the pace to account for someone on foot. Chrollo stood, glared hotly at the Jarl, and grabbed his staff from where he’d left it near the fire. The door at the front of the hall was already open. Instead of waiting around to be yelled at again, he made his way outside, waiting in the fenced in courtyard for the rest to gather. 

The day was brisk and chilly, speaking much to the early spring thaw that had passed over the land. Snow still spotted the landscape, clinging in divots and on the underside of hills, hiding from the sun in one final bid to last until the next cold snap came. Chrollo wandered around the yard, avoiding the men who’d managed to rise without issue and who milled around in small groups to chat and bemoan the early hour. There wasn’t much to see or do, but around the back of the building he saw stables and what looked to be the outdoor kennels for the dogs he’d seen gathered beneath the tables the night before. Were they friendly, or were they as beastly as the people within? 

He didn’t have long to ponder it. Silva’s loud voice could be heard even from around the hall, and Chrollo wound his way back to the front of the courtyard to find the majority of the thanes gathered and organizing themselves in lines. Some had horses, others were on foot. The dogs Chrollo had been looking for were leashed and waiting as well, held in check by a few men who lacked horses. Their armor shined brilliantly in the early morning sun and Chrollo threw up a hand to fight the glare, moving automatically towards Silva and the familiar dappled horse he rode. 

It shouldn’t have surprised him that he couldn’t even make it there without being accosted at least once. It shouldn’t have, but it still did. His arm was seized in an iron grip, the hand spanning his entire bicep easily, and Chrollo found himself nearly yanked off his feet by the last man he wanted to see. 

“What makes you think you can walk at the Jarl’s side?” Ivar growled, looming like a burly tree to stare Chrollo down. With his wide sword on his hip and his helmet on, he looked far more intimidating than he had before, though no less intoxicated. 

Chrollo refused to back up this time. He ripped his arm from the man’s grip with a furious glare. He couldn’t stand the thought of letting Ivar touch him, especially when he could smell the stink of sweat and beer clinging to the thane. “Because I’d rather walk by him than by you,” he shot just as Silva passed by, shoving Ivar away again with a hand to the man’s chest. 

“If he can keep up, let him,” Silva chuckled, giving Chrollo a humored look that immediately made Chrollo take it as a challenge. “If he falls behind, then I’m sure you’ll keep an eye on him. Won’t you, Ivar?”

The man made some comment that Chrollo didn’t bother listening to. He just followed Silva instead, watching the man mount and head towards the gate, his cavalry and foot soldiers trailing behind in a semi-wakeful herd. There was no fanfare or grand goodbye to see them off. Just the soft breeze through the treetops and the gentle call of birds singing in the naked branches above. They walked for a spell in silence, but eventually, Chrollo tired of the quiet and turned his attention towards Silva. 

“Why did you bring so much with you?” Chrollo couldn’t help but ask, looking at the heavy saddlebags on the horse’s back. “I thought we were just going to a nearby village.” 

“We are,” he answered, glancing down at Chrollo keeping apace easily. The food had done him wonders. “But we’re also going to another one that is further off. We’ll most likely be camping tonight and perhaps even the next day.”

Chrollo thought to his bag, filled with scraps of bread and not much besides. “Oh,” he murmured. He had nothing, really. Nothing that would serve well for an extended stay outdoors. He had lived within forests for most of his life, but that knowledge wouldn’t help him much if he wasn’t permitted to use it. He’d have to make his bread last then since it would be foolhardy to rely on the kindness of the men around him for food. Instead of ruminating on it, he turned instead to the surrounding countryside. The weather was nice, which was good, given their plans for the night, but the subtle chill still hanging in the air gave Chrollo pause. It could easily frost once the sun went down. He wrapped his cloak around himself tightly, as if that would hold in the heat for later when he most needed it. 

While the men behind him chatted and joked, Chrollo spent the majority of the walk in silence, wondering how and why this had become his life. He’d never had much luck in keeping out of trouble, but given the way his morning had gone, he hardly expected the rest of the day to bode well. What would they find in this village? What would be expected of him? Silva seemed to think that he could fix his every little problem with a wave of his hand, but if that was what they all wanted him to do, they were going to be sorely disappointed. 

“Stop sulking,” Silva called down to him, breaking him from his thoughts. “You’re depressing my horse.”

Chrollo wrinkled his nose and looked up at the man, releasing the grip he had on his cloak. “Excuse me for taking umbrage with my current situation,” he huffed.

“You’re excused. Now stop sulking.”

“You’re terrible, you know that right?” he asked, wishing he could shove the man from his horse and make him walk like he made Chrollo, on nothing more than a few mouthfuls of bread and a few hours of fitful sleep. 

Silva rolled his eyes before he bothered looking at Chrollo, his brow raised. “Thankfully, I don’t base my opinions of myself off the thoughts of whelps like you. Stop complaining. We’re almost there.” Just to hit home his point, he increased the pace a notch, forcing Chrollo to play catch up again, else he risked falling into the thick of the rank and file. 

Fortunately for Chrollo, Silva was true to his word. He only had to jog for a few minutes before the ground began to slope downwards. At the bottom he could just make out a cluster of buildings, smoke rising from the village in a way that spoke of life, not death. Before he could ask though, Silva was trotting towards a nearby tree, his guide rein in hand to loop around a low hanging branch. They really were close then. Apparently the rest of the journey there would be made on foot. 

As Silva dismounted and busied himself with barking at his men, Chrollo leaned against the horse, allowing himself a moment to rest. The horse was very pretty, strong and tall with a mane of blue-gray that shined brightly in the light. Clicking his tongue softly, he stroked along the horse’s long neck and then her nose when she turned into his touch. What a kind animal for a brute like Silva, he thought, wishing he had a carrot or some treat to give her for her work. Anyone who put up with the Jarl deserved something sweet for their troubles. 

“The he-witch is talking to the horse,” a low voice snickered, making Chrollo’s ears prick. 

“One beast to another, I suppose,” another laughed, and Chrollo rounded on them. Could he not even pet an animal without being ridiculed? Just as he opened his mouth to snap something derisive, Silva walked between him and the men, his booming voice already talking. Of course, not to defend Chrollo though. That would be unthinkable. 

“Settle down!” he shouted, and silence spread throughout the ranks. Chrollo pressed closer to the horse, resting his forehead against her strong neck as he stroked through her mane. “The village up ahead has been completely ravaged by the plague. There are no survivors that we know of, but that’s what we’re here to verify. I’m sure it’s already been looted, but keep an eye out for anything alive. Olaf, Asger, stay behind with the horses. If you see something alive, send out a signal.”

He paused, looking over his shoulder to spear Chrollo with his sharp gaze. “That goes doubly for you,” he said, giving a wave to his men to disperse them on ahead. Soon, Chrollo and Silva were the only ones left besides the men told to hang back, the horse the only thing between them. “Usually, I wouldn’t send out a full force like this just to check a village, but we can’t afford to lose you should something be lurking within. You stick with me.”

Chrollo rolled his eyes. “And to think,” he began dryly, giving the horse one last pet before Silva reached for her himself. “I was just beginning to become so fond of Ivar.”

“Then I suppose you can ride back with him, in that case,” Silva replied, patting his horse’s cheek before he turned back to lead Chrollo down the hill that would take them into the village. “Are you able to sense-” He waved his hand around, as if that would have some meaning to Chrollo. “-magic?”

That was a very simplistic way to think about it. Chrollo wrinkled his nose, using his staff to guide him down the rocky hill. “In a sense, yes,” he said, taking in the village below. It was small, as he expected it to be, and already he could see that many of the structures had been burned to the ground, thin tendrils of smoke still rising from the rubble, giving the illusion of life where only death remained. “It’s a bit more complex than that, but sure. I can sense magic.”

If Silva sensed the sarcasm in his voice, he didn’t mention it. “This is the most recent case that I know of,” he went on, his tone grave. “If there’s any residual...energy? It will be here. See if you can sense it and put a name to it. This can’t go on.” 

Swallowing, Chrollo nodded. As much as he hated his role in all of this, there was no denying the severity of the situation. How many had died already? Silva’s territory was large, but this amount of loss was unsustainable. “If there are bodies, it will be easier,” he said quietly, wondering how long ago the people here had died. He didn’t want to see a corpse. He didn’t, but he had to do something.

“Most died, so that shouldn’t be hard to find.” 

They passed under the crumbling, singed wall that surrounded the small village. Up close, the destruction was much more obvious. Nearly every structure had been razed, whether by looters and marauders or by the villagers in efforts to purge the plague by fire. Chrollo took a quick glance at Silva, finding the Jarl’s expression stalwart but shaken. Even the battlefield didn’t prepare a person for the sight of utter destruction. 

Silva’s men were milling about, searching through the wreckage and faring a bit better than Silva seemed to be. Every now and then laughter could be heard as a man found something of interest or something that had survived the fire that was worthy of a joke and a nudge. Chrollo moved to the center of the space, Silva following just a step behind him. 

A rumble, barely perceptible, made Chrollo pause midstep. 

“Do you sense anything?” Silva asked after a minute of Chrollo standing motionless, his forehead resting against the wood of his staff. 

“Give me a moment,” Chrollo breathed, closing his eyes to concentrate on the soft, barely-there presence. Where was it coming from? He could feel it through his feet, but that hardly made sense. Every creature that walked or swam or flew held an inherent rhythm to its existence. What was he feeling now? It was so small. Too small. Nothing here should be alive, but something still held on, refusing to leave the world so soon. 

“Well, what is it?” Silva pressed, his impatience mounting. A few of the men had paused in their search, seeing that something was obviously happening around the he-witch. “Tell me what you feel.”

Chrollo grabbed him by the sleeve, shushing him. “Shut up,” he said, staring at the ground. “There’s something alive down here. I can feel it moving beneath our feet.”

Silva drew his sword, giving a pointed look to his men to keep close. “What is it?” he asked, and Chrollo shushed him again, falling to his knees to press his ear to the soft, ashy dirt. It was faint, but he could hear it. Behind him, the men muttered and whispered of evil, mockery laid aside for the moment. 

Chrollo let out a breath, the ash fluttering into the air in a gentle cloud. “It’s crying,” he murmured, and Silva dipped lower to hear him. “It’s trapped and it’s crying. Stand back.”

“What are you doing—” Silva demanded, but Chrollo dug his hands into the fire-licked earth, calling forth the power that resided just beneath his skin. It washed over him in a wave, the dust and dirt thrumming, spiraling, swirling and churning like a whirlpool upon the land. The men began to shout and Silva took a few steps back. 

The world faded away, just as it did when Chrollo summoned power for something more strenuous than minor spellwork. His mother always told him that as völva they were connected to the land in a way that most couldn’t fathom. When the magic flowed and the world went silent, they could listen to the whispers of the forests, hearing the slow secrets they only shared with those who understood. Chrollo burrowed his fingers into the soil like the roots of the trees, letting their quiet murmurs guide him lower. 

The earth was hollow here, the remains of a cellar on the verge of caving in lurking just beneath their feet. He heard it again. A cry for help. Sad. Scared. Immeasurably scared. The men were shouting and drawing their weapons, Silva the only force keeping them from striking out at him. Chrollo opened his eyes and turned his hands upwards, dragging the earth up along with them. 

“There you are,” he breathed, looking down into a hole that went down at least two meters. He could see the frightened thing curled up against the wall, nearly obscured by the darkness of the pit. “Hold on, little one. I’m coming.” He swung his legs over the edge of the hole and readied himself to jump, only to be locked in place by a strong, iron-like hand clapped over his shoulder. Chrollo huffed and glared up at the king, knowing if he tried to shake off his grip, he’d be met only with failure. 

“What is it?” Silva demanded, his men muttering and rattling their weapons fearfully. “What did you just do?”

“I moved the earth,” he said simply, straining to free himself. “Let me go; I need to help her.” If he just shoved off the ground, would the drop free him from the hold? If Silva toppled down with him, that could make for a messy landing. “Go pillage like you men do. This is the only thing left alive here.”

Silva gave him a hard look and dragged him back to peer into the hole he’d carved. His grip loosened when he caught sight of what Chrollo had sensed, scared and crying beneath the dirt. “This is a waste of time,” he sighed, but Chrollo didn’t care about what he thought. He shook off the king’s hand and let himself slide down into the cellar, leaving Silva above to watch instead of help. 

Chrollo controlled his fall, staying crouched once he reached the bottom of the hole. Sunlight from above streamed in, glinting off the dust and ash still thick in the air. The cellar was narrow, cut into the ground by a family long gone or long dead. Bits of broken pots were scattered about, sharp and coated in the oils and rotten foods they’d once held. He could see clearly the small creature tucked against the line of the wall, her little face completely black with soot. 

“I’m here, little one,” he said softly, making his way over the pot sherds with care. At the sound of his voice, the small thing tried valiantly to stand but only managed a shaky attempt before plopping back into the dirt. She looked to be a young goat, or perhaps even a lamb, one that had probably fallen through a hole in the ground and gotten trapped while the fires raged above. Chrollo bit his lip and knelt beside her, stroking her small head to keep her calm. 

“Where is your mother, little one?” he asked, using the edge of his cloak to clean the dirt from her eyes. She bleated softly, her nose and mouth cold against his hands. An orphan then, just like him. Chrollo gathered her in his arms and walked her towards the opening, the light showing her to be a lamb, no more than two weeks old. “It’s alright now,” Chrollo promised, letting her nuzzle him for warmth. “I won’t let anything hurt you.”

She bumped her head softly against his chin. Chrollo felt her heartbeat settle into something more sedate. 

“Silva?” Chrollo called, looking up to the blue sky above him. The wall was too soft to climb, and with the lamb in his arms, there was no way he was getting out without some measure of help. “Silva, are you up there?”

The king’s light hair was nearly blinding against the sun, shining like white gold. He stared expectantly down at Chrollo, taking in the lamb coolly. “What?” he asked a bit roughly, crossing his arms like he had the right to assess and judge all that he saw. “Can’t get up the way you went down?”

“Perhaps I could, if your men wouldn’t scream and faint at the sight of me using my power,” Chrollo shot back, hating Silva’s incessant need to prod at him. “Take her and hold her. I can climb out on my own, but I don’t want her getting jostled.”

“You should just leave it where you found it. Without its mother, it will die soon enough on its own.”

Chrollo closed his eyes and took a deep breath, opening them again when he felt some measure of control return to him.  _ Smile _ , his mother had always said.  _ Smile when they act like they know best _ . It stung his cheeks, but he managed to smile, lifting the lamb gently. Expectantly. “I think that is my problem, not yours, Silva,” he said, and Silva simply rolled his eyes and reached for the lamb. He only needed one hand to heft her, taking her from Chrollo with a gentleness that neither remarked on. 

“Scrawny little thing,” Silva observed while Chrollo set himself to scaling the soft, crumbling wall. “There’s a cut on its leg.” The lamb made a soft cry, but Chrollo knew it was just from Silva checking the wound for infection. 

“The ground down here is littered with broken pottery,” Chrollo grunted, sweating a little when every handhold he made crumbled the moment he put his weight on it. He slid back to the ground and wiped at his brow, no doubt smearing dirt along his forehead. It was one thing to open the earth to expose a hole underneath, but if he were forced to use magic to lift himself up, he’d be too tired to walk back to the hall. Chrollo looked up at Silva, who was looking down at him with an entertained look, only somewhat softened by the bleary-eyed lamb nestled under his arm. 

“I thought you could climb out on your own,” Silva prodded. 

“I thought you could be a decent human being and help me up gracefully without lording it over me,” Chrollo said back. Silva laughed and Chrollo could hear the sound of the warriors’ weapons and clanking armor grow closer. “Just help me up. Please.” Before the men saw him down here and decided to take turns ridiculing him. 

Silva rolled his eyes but knelt down, resting the lamb at his side to free up his hands. She tried to stand again, leaning her little head over the edge to baa loudly and needfully at Chrollo. “Lift your arms,” Silva ordered. Chrollo acquiesced with a rueful frown. The hole was nearly a foot taller than Chrollo, but Silva’s reach made up the difference, snagging him under the arms to lift him as easily as if he were hefting a kitten from the floor. 

The moment he came into contact with solid ground, Chrollo wriggled free of Silva’s grip to stand under his own power. “Thank you,” he said dismissively, moving to pick up the lamb again. She met him halfway, fumbling forward to bump her small head into his hand. 

“You’re filthy,” Silva observed. 

“Shocking how that happens,” Chrollo muttered, busying himself with cleaning the lamb first. 

Now that he was in better lighting, he could see that she was different from the pure white lambs he normally saw in the fields. Beneath the soot and ash, he found that her entire face was naturally black. He knees matched, little spots of dark fleece resting on her legs like little kneepads. Chrollo smiled and scratched beneath her chin. Her small ears twitched and flicked, one bent oddly in a way that spoke of some pre-existing quirk. Clumps of dirt littered her short fleece and he did his best to comb through it with his fingers, hoping that more injuries weren’t lying in wait beneath the filth. Her front right leg was indeed hurt, a long but shallow cut running the length of the leg, the fleece sticky with dried blood. 

“Do you have some water?” he asked Silva, forgetting for a moment that they had come to this place for a reason and with other people. 

He shouldn’t have forgotten. 

A spray of water hit his face the moment he looked up, blinding him. Chrollo made the mistake of inhaling, sputtering and choking on the water as the gathered men bellowed with laughter. The dirt turned to mud on his hair and skin, and he wiped his hair from his eyes as quickly as he could, instinctively covering the lamb with his body. 

It was the same man from that morning who held the skein, his grin vicious and his friends egging him on just behind him. “Oh, was that not what you wanted?” Ivar said with faux apology. “I thought I heard you ask for a drink.”

Chrollo didn’t even bother looking to Silva. He would find no support there. Instead, he wiped the mud and water from his eyes, staring levelly at the wild-eyed man. The lamb bleated weakly and tried to look past his protective embrace. Ivar caught sight of her in an instant, gesturing at her as his friends nudged each other in delight. 

“My king, we had no idea that you’d found us dinner!” he crowed, and to Chrollo’s horror, Silva laughed along with his men. Chrollo lifted the lamb and held her to his chest, glaring at the Jarl. The lamb snuffled at his cheek, her little mouth chewing on his hair for want of something to eat. 

“If you try to touch her, I’ll kill you,” Chrollo said simply but solidly. Something warm and big brushed against him from behind, and he looked up to find Silva hovering over him. His gaze was hard like he didn’t appreciate the he-witch threatening his men. Chrollo stared into his cool eyes steadily. “I’ll kill them,” he promised. “This lamb is mine.”

The tension was thick enough to choke on. Silva’s face was unreadable and the men shifted impatiently, waiting for him to throw Chrollo and the lamb both into their violent hands. Chrollo stared unflinchingly, daring him to do just that. He would see first hand what Chrollo was capable of doing when cornered. 

Sighing, Silva rubbed tiredly at his eyes. “Leave them be,” he ordered and the men gave out a collective cry of outrage. Silva’s hand fell and he glared at his men, his expression turning hard. “Get back to searching the village, or have you forgotten why we’re here?” 

Chrollo smiled into the lamb’s fleece, letting out a soft breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The men ruefully began to disperse, spreading out among the burnt out hovels to scrounge around the remains. The moment they were gone, Chrollo went down on his knees, laying the little lamb down to properly treat her leg. 

“Thank you,” he said quietly for Silva’s ears only. The skein of water he’d asked for before nudged his cheek and he took it gratefully, sneaking a single sip before dampening the edge of his cloak to clean the old blood and ash from the lamb’s leg. 

“Don’t make me do that in front of my men again,” Silva snapped, walking a few steps away to glare at the far off mountains. “We aren’t here to play nursemaid to animals that will die regardless of the kindness we show. If you want that lamb so much, then it’s your responsibility. If it slows us down, I throw it to my men.”

Chrollo’s hands froze and the lamb lipped at his fingertips, searching for milk he didn’t have. “She won’t slow you down,” he said, so angry he nearly shook. “And I won’t let her die.” 

The Jarl scoffed. “So, you’re somehow able to produce milk?” Silva laughed and turned back to look down on Chrollo dressing the lamb’s wound. “And here you told me you weren’t a woman.”

He should have expected this. He should have expected that Silva would be like this, because that was just the kind of person he was. One good deed didn’t change a man’s nature, of that Chrollo was certain. He cleaned out the lamb’s cut and washed it, shushing her softly when she cried out. “What I can or can’t do has nothing to do with you,” he muttered, his voice softening when he looked into the lamb’s sweet eyes. She would need this wrapped up, preferably with a poultice to ward off infection. The woods would have what he needed, so the faster they finished this search, the better off she would be. “I won’t let her die. That’s all you need to know.”

Silva wasn’t listening any more. He was off a few yards away, kicking through a crumbling door to search inside one of the larger standing hovels. Chrollo sighed and wiped the dirt from the lamb’s ears, wishing he could give her a bath. Later, he promised her. For now, he had to fix Silva’s problems before he could fix hers. Hefting her into his arms, Chrollo went in the opposite direction, not wanting to be around Silva or the rest. He could conduct his own search. It’d be better anyway. Less distractions. Less haranguing. 

The lamb baa’d softly, and Chrollo let out a breath, relaxing. He smiled down at her, softening the frown he wore. “I’m not mad at you, little one,” he promised. “Are you hungry?” She bleated again, her long lashes tickling Chrollo’s neck as she blinked. He really didn’t have a way to get milk, but perhaps he could find some in one of these homes. Looters wouldn’t steal something like that. He just hoped that if there was some, it had survived the fire. 

Ducking into one of the homes, Chrollo began his search. The inside wasn’t horribly burnt, but it had been ransacked, the floor littered with splintered wood and broken pottery. With the lamb in his arms, he couldn’t very well move things around, so he shifted her into his cloak, looping the fabric beneath her and then again around his arm in an improvised sling. She nestled in it comfortably, her small head popping out of the opening to look around curiously at everything Chrollo picked up. All the while she treated him to a running commentary of her thoughts, baaing and chatting away excitedly. 

“You don’t say?” Chrollo chuckled, loving how talkative she was. “Tell me more.” He knelt down and pressed his hand against the dirt floor, closing his eyes to sense what sort of energy lingered in a home like this. Usually family homes were warm in spirit, comforting and gentle. He hadn’t been inside many, but those he found himself welcomed into were always pleasant to be inside. His fingers dug into the dirt and soot, eager to feel kindness when surrounded but nothing of the sort.

He was disappointed. With the force of a thunderclap, Chrollo ripped his hand away and stumbled, falling onto his backside as a ripple of pure hatred stung him like an angry hive of wasps. Behind his eyes he saw blood and anger, fear and loss, and the combined onslaught was too much to parse out all at once. The lamb bleated, feeling none of what Chrollo felt, and for that he was grateful. 

What on earth had happened here? Were all of the villages like this? 

He almost didn’t hear the loud, angry footsteps approach. What was left of the door crumbled as Silva threw it open, his eyes wide and nostrils flared. “Why did you go off on your own?” he yelled, and Chrollo wrapped his arms around the lamb when she began to thrash and bleat, startled by the loud noise. “I told you not to leave my side.”

“If you recall,” Chrollo cut in before the lamb could get any more frightened. “You were the one who left me first.”

Silva didn’t seem to care that much. He just came in and grabbed Chrollo by the shoulder, ripping him from the floor and setting him down on his feet. “Didn’t you hear the calls? We’re heading out.” 

Chrollo frowned, shaking off his hands. “I wanted to look around some more,” he protested. “There’s more I need to check.”

“Why?” Silva demanded, his hand on Chrollo’s lower back to push him out the door and back into the sunlight. “Did you sense something? Is there magic here? Whose is it?”

“I told you already; it’s more complicated than that.” 

The man was stressed; that much was obvious. Whatever he’d found or hadn’t found had him as tense as a board, his hand heavy and insistent against Chrollo’s back. “Then make it simple,” he said through clenched teeth. “We can’t let this happen to any more villages.” 

“Silva!” a voice called, stopping them in their tracks. “We found something!” 

Silva grabbed Chrollo around the arm, practically dragging him towards the voices. “I can walk on my own,” he protested, but the grip didn’t loosen in the slightest. Silva really didn’t want him disappearing again. 

“What did you find?” the Jarl asked before he even reached them. 

“Some bodies,” and Chrollo perked up, wondering how much he could glean from those. “And some signs of fighting. Looks like if there were any survivors, they died to looters.”

“Can I see the bodies?” Chrollo asked, shifting the lamb a bit. Her little black face looked around happily, her small pink tongue bright against her dark snout as she stuck it out to pant. He didn’t want her near the dead, but he certainly didn’t trust her in the hands of anyone else here. 

The men all shared a look but when Silva nodded, they gestured him forward and pointed down at the ground behind what might have once been a fenced in garden. “Have at it,” one of the men said, his ruddy red hair curling from the sweat he’d worked up. Chrollo pushed past him carefully, kneeling before the fallen with his hand held over his nose. 

The bodies were of two men and one woman. Chrollo closed his eyes, held his breath, and stuck out his hand. He didn’t need to see them to do this, and he didn’t want the image of their dead, lax faces haunting him while he tried to sleep. The lamb shifted uneasily in her little sling. Chrollo covered her face with his free palm, so she wouldn’t have to see it either. His fingertips touched cold, hard flesh, and he forced himself to let the feelings in, searching for the signs the dead carried, asking them to tell him what had happened. 

It took a moment to digest all he felt. “I think…I think he was right,” Chrollo admitted slowly, standing up and dusting off his hands. “I don’t sense anything malign beyond what you’d expect to feel given the circumstances.” Perhaps these people did die to something mundane like scavengers, but that hardly explained away the feeling he’d gotten back in that hovel. 

“It’s obvious this is just another looted village, my liege,” said Oskarr, leaning on the crumbling wall that bordered the place. “There’s nothing to find here.” A rumble of asset spread through the lines, the men nursing their hangovers and more than ready to leave this burnt out husk. 

Silva grunted, heading straight for his horse. The men followed suit, lining back up in their own processional line. Chrollo just tried to keep up. “Let’s move out,” he shouted. “We’ve done all we can here.” He mounted his mare and pulled her around, his disappointment and unease a heavy weight along his shoulders. 

That wasn’t true. Chrollo held the lamb in his arms, jogging after the Jarl even as the men trailed behind. Their conversation rose up in a soft din but it only made it easier for Chrollo to get Silva’s attention. “I don’t think this is what it seems,” he said quietly for Silva’s ears only. “I felt signs of a struggle, far beyond what you’d expect to see from a simple looting.” 

Silva furrowed his brow and drew closer on his horse, walking with Chrollo’s shoulder brushing the straps of his saddle. The men behind them didn’t seem to take any notice, too busy joking amongst themselves to bother wondering what the little he-witch had to say to the Jarl. “How could you know that?” he asked, and Chrollo caught how the man’s eyes kept straying to the lamb in his arms. “Maybe the looters met some survivors.”

Chrollo shook his head, holding the lamb tighter. “It didn’t feel like that at all.” Something like that wouldn’t have steeped the ground in such turmoil. Looting and raiding was a normal facet of life, but whatever had occurred in that village was anything but normal. It tinged the soil with unease and wrongness. “I don’t understand how you couldn’t sense it too. It was so strong.”

“Then what  _ did _ happen if you think you have it all figured out?” the Jarl prodded. 

So they were back to this, were they? The pointed demands and rushed fronting of a man who didn’t want the others to see him acting soft. “There are a lot of things it could have been.” Chrollo rolled his eyes and reached into his bag for a rind of bread, biting off a piece with his teeth and softening it in his mouth before feeding the mush to the lamb. Silva waited but not patiently. “I think your enemy is more dangerous than you considered them to be.”

“Well then,” Silva said imperiously. “It’s a good thing that I’ve got you then, isn’t it?”

Chrollo didn’t have the willpower or the energy to list off all of the ways why that was a poor stance to take. Danger didn’t always equate to power, but in this case, Chrollo had a sneaking suspicion that it did. “You don’t know much about völva, do you?” he sighed, gratified only a little when the little lamb lipped at his fingers, eagerly eating the softened bread. She was so hungry, the poor thing. He didn’t have much food, but if she could eat it, he’d make sure that she did. It boded well that she could at least stomach some bread. Perhaps she could manage some grass as well, at least until he found her some milk.

“I know the stories,” Silva said, which was to say that he didn’t know anything at all beyond the hyperbole spread to greaten a völva’s renown. “And I know that there are no other options. You’ll solve this or we’ll all die. I don’t plan to die, so I suppose you’d best make it happen.”

Did the man even listen to himself speak? “You don’t understand-” Chrollo tried to say, but his words fell on deaf ears. The conversation was over whether Silva believed him or not. The horse pulled ahead, taking the Jarl with it, and Chrollo ignored the rumble of laughter behind him as the men readied themselves to resume their mockery. 

“You know,” Oskarr crowed from somewhere in the company, “from behind, the little he-witch almost looks like a proper völva.”

“They always do from behind!” another laughed followed by a resounding medley of agreements. “I wonder how the little bitch would look without that ratty garb,” the same man pondered. “With enough ale, he might even look pretty.”

“Only from behind!” a few men sang, cementing this as their new favorite joke. “We eat the lamb and have dessert after.”

What a disgusting band of monsters. They could say all they wanted so long as they didn’t act on it. Chrollo bit off another piece from the scrap of bread, keeping his eyes on the lamb and nothing else. “You’ll be safe with me,” Chrollo promised, feeding the lamb another mouthful. Silva rode in front of him, high and kingly atop his horse, too lost in his own problems to pay any mind to Chrollo’s. He kissed the lamb’s crooked ear, knowing he shouldn’t expect any help or kindness from Silva anyway. 

By the time they reached a viable place to stop for the night, the sun was near setting and the open plains had transformed to a forest in the midst of reclaiming its greenery from winter’s still-lingering grasp. Chrollo shifted the lamb in his arms carefully, eager to rest. Silva had sent off men to scout for a good place to make camp for the night, but it was Chrollo who looked around for them, longing for the clearing to be near and comfortable. 

He didn’t have long to wait. A whistle sounded off in the distance and Silva gestured towards it, leading them off to the right towards the scouts who had gone ahead. Chrollo hitched the lamb higher in his arms, shifting her as he snagged some herbs as he walked. With them in a forest now, the potential for berries and herbs was greater than it had been out on the plains, and Chrollo knew well enough to take any opportunities he could when it came to feeding and tending to himself. The bundle went into his herb pouch, Silva watching him from atop his horse. 

“Don’t stare,” Chrollo told him, looking up to catch him in the act. 

“I can stare if I please,” Silva said back, as if he had the right. Knowing Silva, he probably thought he did. 

Thankfully though, they entered the right clearing, ending the argument before it could start. Silva clicked his tongue at his horse, going on ahead as the rest of the men fanned out, needing no command when it came to settling in for the night. One of the scouts was already busy at work building a fire, while another set to gathering firewood. The rest spread out, claiming their sleeping spots like boys at play. Chrollo stood by a bit awkwardly, holding the lamb and staring as the men all got to setting out their things to sleep, a few others hitching the horses to nearby trees and dressing them down for the night as well. Silva, to his credit, took notice of his inaction, shooting him a pointed look as he unfastened his own belongings from his saddle. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, taking his bag in hand and letting a thane tie up his horse for him. “Go get ready for sleep.”

“I would,” Chrollo huffed, “if I had anything to get ready. I don’t have supplies, Silva. For sleeping or camping or whatever.”

Silva sighed, looking annoyed though Chrollo couldn’t hazard why. It wasn’t Chrollo’s fault he hadn’t been given supplies. The Jarl looked around at the gathered men, eyes alighting on a ruddy cheeked man off near the tree line. “Oi, Lars, give the brat your bedroll,” he shouted, drawing Lars’s attention in an instant. 

“What do I get for giving the he-witch my bedding?” the thane asked, brow raised and grin filthy as he threw the roll at Chrollo’s feet. It bounced a little in the dirt, falling to a stop at the toes of Chrollo’s boots. 

“You get to keep your teeth,” Chrollo muttered, Silva the only one close enough to hear. 

“Leave the he-witch be,” Silva ordered, already dropping his bedroll to the ground and throwing himself down on it in a graceless heap. “You all have better things to do than bother him. Like guard duty, Lars. You don’t need your roll anyway.” If Silva saw the nod Chrollo gave him for the consideration, he didn’t know, but Chrollo gave it to him regardless. It would be nice to go one night without fighting with someone. The day had been draining enough already in that regard. 

With the men grumbling and Silva ignoring him, Chrollo got to settling in with the lamb on his own borrowed bedroll. He unrolled the simple blanket and pad, dragging it off from the main group so he could sleep at a distance from them all. He hardly trusted them near normally and now that he had the lamb to consider, he knew he had to take extra precautions to sleep unbothered throughout the night. 

He waited until they all turned away from him before he went for his bag, lifting out a scrap of bread to chew and soften for the lamb staring up at him eagerly from his lap. “Still hungry?” he asked around a small mouthful of bread, savoring the taste but not letting himself swallow. He pulled out a bit and fed it to her slowly, smiling at how she licked the paste from his fingers. “How long were you stuck down there, baby? Did you lick the pot sherds? Is that how you cut yourself?”

She didn’t answer but then again, he hadn’t expected her to. Instead, she looked up with soft eyes, waiting patiently for the next mouthful to come. It was dark out, but he could at least see that her leg looked free from infection. The cut would heal soon and she’d be as right as rain in no time. Chrollo dug for another hunk of bread, biting and chewing and biting and chewing, building up a rhythm that suited her. She still needed to get her strength back though. It wouldn’t do to feed her too fast, or too much. As hungry as she was, Chrollo still knew it would be better for her to have a little bread and milk than a lot of bread and no milk. Throughout the feeding, he only allowed himself a couple of bites of bread, saving the majority of what he had left for her, and her alone. 

But soon, Chrollo ran out of bread to feed her. He dug around in his bag, even bringing out the crumbs for her to lick from his fingertips. “I’m sorry I don’t have more for you,” he said, praying that it would be enough to keep her going until they reached the next village where he might get her some milk. “If only kisses could fill your belly,” Chrollo sighed, covering her head with them until she threatened to tumble off his lap from her happy little wiggles.

She let out a needy little sound, one that made Chrollo smile despite the company and bleak mood. “Did you just say moop?” he whispered, giggling into her soft ears as he bounced her on his knee. “You clever little girl, what a cute thing to say.” He did need a name for her after all, and if she was saying it all on her own, it bode well as a good name. Plus, he could only imagine how funny it would sound coming from someone like Silva.  _ Moop.  _ The thought alone made Chrollo devolve into half-smothered laughter. 

“How about it, sweetheart?” he asked quietly, lifting the little lamb up to eye level. “Do you want to be my little Moop?” She nuzzled his nose with her own, licking a little to make him laugh. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Chrollo smiled, kissing her little nose softly, feeling happier than he had in a long, long while. 

Taking a look around the camp, Chrollo watched the other men settle in for the night. Without any alcohol, the mood was almost sedate, all excess energy gone from the day’s travel and muted by the stench of death and smoke that still lingered on those who had traveled into the village. Silva was already curled up atop his own bedroll, his sword balanced on his crossed knees as he carefully tended to his weapon. Each pass of his hand over the blade produced a rhythmic  _ sheek  _ as he sharpened the edge, honing it to a razor’s sharpness. In the light of the fire, his pale hair seemed to glow like threads of starlight. 

Moop broke him from his musing, nudging his stomach with her head, wanting her ears scratched again. Chrollo sighed with a smile, giving her the attention she needed after so long on her own. “We’re really quite alike, you and I,” Chrollo told her, leaning back against his rolled up blankets. “I don’t have a mother anymore either. Hopefully you turn out better than I did for it. I’ve never tried to raise a baby before.” 

She baa’d softly, smiling up at him with tired eyes. It was well past time to sleep, especially for little ones like her. Chrollo let out a breath and glanced around the camp again, taking in the men who were focused intently on their own nightly rituals. The scent of woodsmoke and pine brought him back to when he still had a mother. If he didn’t look at the others, he could pretend quite easily that he was still that little boy who would sit at her side and listen to her sing about the night and all it held. 

Stroking down the lamb’s back, Chrollo let the memory swell behind his eyes. If he channeled some power into the words, perhaps her leg might feel better, too.

_ “I dreamt a dream last night, of silk and fine fur,”  _ Chrollo sang, softly but strongly as his mother had taught him all those years ago. Moop’s ears flicked slowly, her head falling to rest on Chrollo’s chest sleepily.  _ “Icy waves, cold dark sea, my beloved, back to me...back to me…” _

The camp quieted as he sang, but Chrollo didn’t let it stop him. He merely closed his eyes and held Moop closer, singing her the songs his mother had taught him so very long ago.  _ “Radiho, othelo, eohl, tyr…” _ Let the men listen, if they so chose. Let them laugh, if they so chose. All that mattered to Chrollo was Moop’s rest and his own comfort.  _ “Back to me, lost at sea, back to me, victory…” _

This was going to be a long journey, after all. He just hoped he could see the lamb and himself through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LibgOC4RJVs


	3. Chapter 3

When Silva awoke the next morning, neck stiff and back sore from the hard ground he’d called a bed, he was met with the resounding noise of men at rest. Snoring, mumbling, and the general shifting of fabric colored the chilly morning, nearly loud enough to drown out the sounds of the forest around them. Silva sat up and cast off his blanket, looking around with tired eyes at the group still largely at rest. 

It was still so early. Why had he woken up? The horses were still tied up a few yards away, their fire still lit and smoldering quietly. The men he’d assigned for watch duty were off near the tree line, chatting as they leaned against the trunks of trees and waited for their time to rest. Silva frowned, unable to shake the disquiet in his heart. Something was wrong with the idyllic, peaceful picture the camp made. 

It came to him quickly when he bothered to count heads. His men were all there, every single one accounted for. What was missing was the bleating of a lamb and the dark, melancholic shape of the he-witch against the forest greenery. Silva shoved himself upright and grabbed the sword beside his pillow. He should have known this would happen. 

“Lars!” he shouted, rousing a few of the closer men as he called over one of the night watch. “Where is that damn witch?!”

Lars jumped and then whirled around, his face red and eyes wide. Silva stood and seethed, watching as the man did his own mental count of the group, his mouth falling open a moment later when he, too, realized the issue. “I’m not sure, my liege,” he said, looking off into the forest as if he might spot Chrollo among the trees. “He was here an hour ago; I’m sure of it.”

An hour. Silva ground his teeth. An hour was more than enough time to run miles from them, even on foot. He moved to where Chrollo had slept, touching the cast-off blanket he’d been given. It was cold. He’d been gone for awhile, and Silva knew the ground was still too cold to leave much in the way of tracks. 

“Wake up the men,” he ordered, already heading to where the dogs had been leashed, the witch’s blanket in hand. “Search the forest. We can’t lose that witch.”

Lars, to his credit, didn’t waste a moment in carrying out the order. He ran through the lines of sleeping men, banging his sword on his shield to rouse them as quickly as he could. Silva didn’t bother waiting for them. He simply grabbed the leashes for the dogs and held out the blanket to them. If they could track a rabbit in a snowstorm, they could find some scrawny little he-witch and that damn lamb of his. 

To his relief, they caught the scent immediately. Their ears perked up and they tugged at the leash, pointing their noses towards the south. “Spread out and find him!” Silva shouted, letting the dogs pull him into the forest. He’d lead the charge while the rest gathered their senses and followed after. 

The dogs took to the forest like fish to water, tails as straight as switches as they tracked the scent of the missing he-witch. Silva, sheathed sword in hand, gave them as much rein as he could while they moved. Behind him, he could hear the sound of his men following suit, grumbling and swearing and demolishing the forest in search of Chrollo. Without the dogs, they would be forced to fan out in Silva’s general direction, broadening the search on the likely chance that the witch bewitched his scent.

The longer he moved, the more angry Silva grew. He should have expected this. How did he not? Had he been given the opportunity afforded to the witch, he would have slit all of their throats in their sleep for good measure. The dogs sensed his growing rage and moved all the faster for it, noses buried in the cold detritus of the forest floor, searching for more of the scent they had been given. Silva’s grip on the leash grew tighter, his teeth grinding so they wouldn’t chatter. They had been fortunate that Chrollo hadn’t attacked them. Given all his power, he easily could have taken out the watch and done as he pleased. Perhaps it was a testament to his absent manhood that he chose instead to run, leaving his captors behind, alive but angry. 

One of the dogs, Mike, raised his head from the loam, ears perked and nose twitching. “Do you smell him?” Silva asked lowly, barely hearing now the sounds of his thanes in their search. Modi raised her head as well, her body pointed in a long line towards the mass of untamed wild ahead. The world grew quiet for a moment, and Silva strained to hear what they heard. 

Was that...Was that the sound of water? Silva cocked his head and he noticed the dogs do so as well. They were near a river, that much he knew, but even a river rarely sounding like splashing. He shared a look with the dogs and then nodded, clicking his tongue to make them lead him to the sound. It was hard to imagine the he-witch in the river, but if Chrollo really wished to evade a search party, masking his scent with the river’s broad waters would be one way of assuring that no one found him. 

The thought alone made Silva’s teeth grind. He charged through the underbrush and bramble, wondering why he kept underestimating a witch who had proven before that he was far more competent than most of Silva’s men. The waters might be near frigid at this time of year, but given the ease in which Chrollo had split the very earth, Silva had to think that warming the waters or calming the raging pull would be child’s play, even with that lamb in tow. 

He looked ahead through the skeletal limbs of naked trees and caught sight of a strip of frothing blue. Pulling up on the leash, he stopped the dogs’ mad dash to the water, ordering them with a sharp command to stay by his side. The river was long, so there was no telling where Chrollo might have forded it, if he really had forded it at all. The earth wasn’t frozen, though, and Silva needed every print intact should they come upon them. He shouldered past a few bushes and glanced along the bank, the dogs following obediently at his hip, waiting for the next order to come. 

Or they did, up until the scent trail picked up again. Silva’s eyes went wide and the dogs went wild, jerking ahead with a mighty yank on their leash. Swallowing down a curse, Silva was forced to move with them, the combined strength of both dogs too much to resist. They broke through the tree cover and came out along the empty, once-green bank of the river. Silva struggled to keep up with the dogs’ sprint, but the moment he saw what they smelled, he dug in his heels and forced the dogs to stop. 

Silva didn’t know whether to be pissed or stay silent when he saw the he-witch bathing in the stream, as nude as a tree in winter. Why hadn’t he run? He’d woken early and slipped away as silently as a mouse. He might’ve been able to run a considerable distance before Silva came chasing after him, but instead, he chose to stop to bathe. The dogs tugged at the leash and strained forward, eager to reach the source of the scent they’d been tracking. For a minute, Silva considered letting them go. He held back though, knowing well enough that surprising any sort of witch was likely to be the last thing he ever did. 

“Heel,” he ordered, and the hounds stopped their tugging, sitting back on their haunches with a few whines. Knowing Chrollo, his lamb would be down there somewhere too. He hardly needed to incite the witch to violence simply because his dogs did as dogs do to small, helpless creatures. They were bred from wolves after all. It wouldn’t end well.

The dogs quieted and Silva bit the inside of his cheek, wondering just what he planned on doing. Chrollo hadn’t run away. He’d obviously come to the stream to bathe, waking early so as to avoid Silva and his men. Should he be angry? Should he let the boy finish? Chrollo had gotten filthy from digging around in that hole, so even Silva, frustrated as he was about having to run through the woods searching for him, understood why Chrollo had slipped away. 

Silva was distracted from his pondering once he realized he was staring. He had known Chrollo to be small in both stature and build. It was clear to see and clearer to feel since hefting him out of the hole had taken no effort at all, but like this, with nothing between them but space and air, Silva could see just how waif-like the witch really was. His shoulders and hips were narrow, his limbs slender like a woman’s but for the lithe muscle he could see on Chrollo’s biceps and thighs. Chrollo raised his cupped palms to scrub at his face, the pink of his skin a rosy hue that clung to his pale frame. There was nothing there that reminded Silva of the men he had in his halls or the warriors he’d fought with. It made it hard to believe that Chrollo could command power far greater than any of them, if he so willed it. 

Silva chewed the inside of his cheek, looking down at the dogs that stared up at him curiously. He moved forward, keeping to an angle so the witch wouldn’t catch sight of him. It was hard to separate the gentle, singing vision he’d been the night before from the image of terror he’d been when he rent the earth as easily as if opening a lid. What a hassle this witch was turning out to be. Silva half wished he had left him in that prison. At least then he wouldn’t have these contrasting thoughts rattling around in his head. 

A spot of movement caught his eye off to the side and Silva turned his head, only to come face to face with the smiling snout of the lamb. He swallowed down a curse and glanced back to Chrollo, making sure that the witch hadn’t seen him jump. Chrollo had moved on to washing his hair, wading deeper into the cool waters to dip his dark hair beneath the surface. Silva curled his lip into a frown and turned back to regard the lamb suspended at eye-level, the small creature nestled in a bag that hung from the branch of a tree. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Silva whispered softly, giving Chrollo another quick glance, just to make sure he wasn’t watching this exchange. Her bent, crooked ear twitched towards his voice and she let out a needy bleat, struggling in her sack. The dogs walked in restless circles below her, one even going up on its hind legs to try and climb the trunk, black nose sniffing wildly at the scented air. 

Silva jerked on the leash, grunting out a command to get them both to heel. The lamb gave another bleat, craning her small head over the side of the sack to look down at the dogs. “Stop wiggling,” he hissed at the lamb, looking over his shoulder at the witch still bathing unaware. Chrollo was stretching now, the early morning sunlight gilding his pale, slender limbs. Silva couldn’t look away.

At least, he couldn’t until he heard the branch supporting the lamb’s bag give out a sharp crack. 

“Shit!” he cursed, dropping the dogs’ leashes to catch the falling bundle. The lamb bleated wildy, her ears flat against her head. She calmed slightly when he brought her to his chest, rocking her like a swaddled infant for want of something to do. Gods, did this creature ever shut up?

“You know you do that for babies, not lambs, right?” came a cool, humored voice, and Silva swore again under his breath. 

“Finally noticed I was here, did you?” he asked, wondering if it were possible to save face while cradling a wriggling lamb. “If I had been an enemy, you would have died a dozen times over.” Chrollo wasn’t naked anymore, but it was a close thing. He had pulled on his leggings and carried the rest of his clothing in his arms. The sight of his bare skin was just as distracting close up as it had been before, and Silva shoved the lamb, bag and all, at the witch. 

Chrollo rolled his eyes and held her close, kissing her ears until her bleats quieted and she stopped fussing. He glanced at the dogs sniffing at his knees, looking back up at Silva with a brow raised. “You even brought the dogs,” he chuckled, his damp hair sticking a bit to his cheeks. “Were you scared when you woke up without me in sight? It’s funny how you accosted the lamb first instead of coming at me.”

Even the damned dogs were beholden to the little witch, sitting primly and properly at his heels, their tails wagging. The little lamb looked down at them, her tail wagging just as quickly as she tried to climb free from her sackcloth prison. “What was she doing up there?” Silva grumbled, hating how Chrollo looked so collected when he’d been found like this, naked and bathing and ultimately powerless. “She nearly fell.”

“She only fell because you came up to her. She gets excited around other people,” Chrollo said pointedly, pressing the bagged lamb back into Silva’s arms so he could finishing dressing himself. His arms were graceful as they pulled on the thick cloak, the blue highlighting the paleness of his skin. “And I kept her up there to keep her safe. Moop is too young to keep herself warm, and it would be horrible if she got lost or followed me into the river.”

There were many things Silva should be asking and more things he should be angry about, but all he could focus on was the absolutely ridiculous name the he-witch had given to the lamb. “ _ Moop _ ?” he said incredulously, nearly spitting it between his teeth as if it tasted bitter and awful. “What possessed you to name the creature  _ Moop _ ?”

He was horrified when the boy began to laugh. It was muffled, but unmistakably a laugh beneath the fabric of his cloak. Chrollo’s head popped free from the collar of his shirt, his expression soft in a way that Silva knew it never was. “Well, part of me wants to say that it was because of the noise she makes, but the truth is that I just wanted to make you say the word Moop.” Chrollo wiped an errant tear from his dark, dark eye and grinned like a cheeky brat. “It was worth it. You sound so funny.”

Would it be out of line to to wipe the smile off his face? Silva frowned and glared down at the lamb in his arms, horrified to find the creature smiling up at him with a pleasant flick of her ears. “That is a horrible name,” he said, thrusting the lamb back at the witch. “Come on. We’re going back to camp.”

“You’re really no fun at all, you know that?” Chrollo huffed, leaning down to pick up his fallen bag. The moment he dipped down, the dogs were at his side, sniffing eagerly at the small animal in his arms, too curious to heel no matter what Silva said. “Oh, hello there,” the witch chuckled, cautiously letting them smell Moop. “Do you want to play with her?”

Silva rolled his eyes, reaching for the leash. He knew his dogs, and he knew the sort of things they did to small animals. “Best you get away from them,” he warned. “They eat little whelps like that for breakfast.”

“Really?” Chrollo asked, his brow raised. The lamb bleated excitedly, and he slowly sat her down on the grass, letting the dogs swarm her, sniffing her all over and licking her small head. “Seems like they get along just fine to me. Perhaps your dogs aren’t as beastly as you make them out to be.”

This really was a horrid morning. First, his men had let him down by failing to notice the witch slipping off. Now, his own dogs were betraying him, forgoing their hunting nature to coddle the little lamb as if it were one of their own. Silva sighed and jerked on the leash, already walking. “Let’s go,” he said, ignoring how the dogs bracketed the bouncing lamb on either side. “The rest are out looking for you too and we’re burning daylight.”

The witch didn’t complain, though Silva hadn’t expected him to. Given all Chrollo had gone through with them so far, he hadn’t complained once. “What all are we doing today?” Chrollo asked, walking beside Silva, trusting the dogs so easily with the care and guiding of his little lamb. “You said something about another village?” 

Nodding, Silva angled them back towards the camp. “It’s just over this ridge,” he said, jerking his head towards the north. “We’ve received tell of plague there, and I thought it best to see for myself how it spreads. Before the village becomes like the one we just left.” It wouldn’t hurt to see what the witch could sense as well. If what he said about malign forces were true, he’d no doubt sense it stronger in a place currently under assault. 

Chrollo let out a sigh. “Let’s hope they haven’t all died,” he murmured, slipping through the trees as if he were born of the forest itself. “Moop needs milk, and I can’t keep feeding her bread if she’s going to grow stronger.”

Silva wondered how her leg was faring. The cut hadn’t been deep, but it’d been long, and infection spread rapidly in the wild. He glanced down at her and saw her trotting happily between the tall dogs, staring up at them excitedly as she chattered away to them. If her leg ailed her, she didn’t show it. Perhaps the witch had done something to speed up the healing. He’d heard tell of völva capable of that, though he’d never witnessed it in person. 

“What did you do to the lamb?” he asked, pointedly refusing to use that stupid name.

Raising a brow, the witch looked up at him curiously. “What do you mean, what did I do to her?” he asked back, glancing down at Moop as if she had somehow changed in the few minutes she’d been out of his arms. 

Silva rolled his eyes. “Her leg,” he clarified, nodding down at her happily skipping about, weaving between the dogs’ legs as they walked. “She couldn’t walk on it yesterday, so what did you do to her?”

“Oh,” the witch said. “That.” He wrinkled his nose and looked at the trees ahead of them, steadily avoiding Silva’s eye. “I hadn’t expected it to work that well. I don’t think I even noticed.”

“What?” Why was he being so cagey? It’s not like he did something grand and impressive while everyone else slept. Silva was fairly certain he would have woken up if that had been the case, his ignorance of Chrollo slipping away notwithstanding. “What did you do?”

The witch wrapped his arms around his middle, still avoiding his eye. “Sang to her, I suppose,” he said quietly. 

Silva’s eyes widened. He had heard him do that the night before, though he hadn’t thought it magic. “And that healed the little lamb’s leg?” he said incredulously. “It was just a lullaby, wasn’t it?”

Chrollo shrugged, looking done with the conversation. His cheek were a little flushed. “It was just something my mother would sing me when I didn’t feel well,” he muttered. 

His mother? Silva wondered what sort of woman she must have been to yield this sort of child. Chrollo didn’t look in the mood to answer more questions about it though, so he let it die. What use did Silva have with information on the he-witch’s past? It wouldn’t help the situation at hand, and if the little lamb’s leg was healed now, perhaps it would speed up the pace when it came time to get back on the road. They walked in silence and came into the camp, finding it populated with about half of the men, the rest still out searching for a witch that had already been found. Chrollo hid behind Silva’s back, lingering with the dogs when he released the leash and let them plop down to play with their new friend. 

“Call back the rest,” Silva ordered to the man nearest him. “I want us ready to move out within the hour.” That gave them enough time to back up and ready the horses, as well as eat. 

“Get your things together,” he told the witch, his tone exasperated when he looked down to find him on the ground, the dogs eagerly sniffing his hair and pawing at him for attention. “You’ve already wasted us enough time this morning.”

Chrollo wrinkled his nose, looking more than ready to argue. “I’m not the one who woke up late,” he mumbled, scratching Modi’s ears as Mike licked Moop’s fleece. “I would have come back. You didn’t need to rouse the entire camp just to tromp after me.”

Silva most certainly did. He snatched up his bedroll and set to tying it to his horse, using a bit more force than necessary as he did so. “If you leave my sight again, I’m throwing your lamb to the men,” he said, ignoring the white-hot glare that bought him. “You aren’t here to wander as you please. You stay with me or I’ll make you regret it.”

If he expected a retort, he didn’t get one. Silva finished fussing with his saddle and then turned, startling a bit. He hadn’t realize Chrollo was behind him. “What?” he grated, the short witch glaring up at him venomously. “Get your shit together-”

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Chrollo said, his voice acerbic and as sharp as steel, something almost akin to betrayed hurt coloring the soft black of his eyes. Like this, the inches separating them seemed to disappear. “I don’t care what you do to me,” he began, that cold, churning energy coiling around them both as the witch drew near. “I don’t care what you or your men call me. You can abuse me all you want, but if I hear you threaten Moop one more time, I will kill you where you stand.”

Silva blinked, his blood turned to ice by the look of utter resolve in the witch’s dark eyes. There was no ounce of softness in him, despite the tiny lamb tugging at the hem of his cloak. He took a step closer, using every bit of his considerable height to loom over Chrollo. “Excuse me?” he growled, barely noticing the camp stop to watch them. 

Chrollo wasn’t cowed. Not in the slightest. “You already know I’m stronger than you,” he said, voice soft, deadly. “You know I could rend you and your men limb from limb, until there’s nothing left but blood and bone. You know the only reason I’m obeying you is due to my desire for freedom. Anything I do for you is done by my allowance alone.” His dark hair began to sway and muss from a wind Silva couldn’t feel. “If you hurt what is mine, there will be no more allowance.”

The men were watching. That was all Silva could think as he stared down at the creature harboring more power than Silva could scarcely imagine. It was hard to imagine the soft, unguarded, bathing boy from before was the very same who stood before him now. “Then I suggest you do as I say,” Silva said, refusing to balk. “Else blood will spill.”

He looked like he wanted to argue. Argue or strike out at him. Silva stared down at the witch, daring him to. If he could kill them all, he would have. If he thought he could live his life unbothered and free without Silva’s help, he would have. Chrollo looked him in the eye, anger warring it out with the common sense Silva knew he had. His full bottom lip curled into a frown, and from that alone, Silva knew he had won. The witch gave him one last measured glare before turning around, scooping up his lamb to stomp over to his bedroll.

Silva let out a low breath, the warmth of the early morning racing back in to thaw what the mood had frozen. He could hear his men whispering, staring at the witch with fury and trepidation both. “What are you all staring at!?” he shouted, setting them all on edge. “Get your shit together! We head out in ten minutes!”

The he-witch was becoming a problem, Silva realized as he readied his horse for the travel ahead. It was one thing for him to smart off to Silva. On some level, Silva could understand his frustration. He was beholden to a group of men he didn’t trust and who didn’t trust him. But the outward show of rebellion, in front of his men no less...Silva couldn’t let the witch lose him face. He was a Jarl. He had killed men for less brazenness, and coming from someone like Chrollo, such a response was nearly expected of Silva. 

Grinding his teeth, Silva mounted his horse, trotting around the dismantled camp to see that his orders were being followed. Someone had already come by to take the borrowed bedroll from Chrollo, leaving the witch with nothing but his cloak, his staff, and the lamb he was tucking back into his bag. She hung happily at his hip, her small head popped out to look around at the world around her. Already she was chattering away, Chrollo smiling gently down at her and petting her soft ears. Silva felt his jaw relax, wondering how long it would take for the men to grow sick of her excited bleating. 

For a fraction of a second, Chrollo’s eyes met Silva’s. For a fraction of a second, Silva forgot to breathe. 

The spell broke though, and Silva chewed angrily at the inside of his cheek. “In formation!” he shouted at the scrambling, rushed men, taking out his frustration on them. “Move out!”

They hurried to fall in, Chrollo slipped through them unseen to stand at Silva’s side. He didn’t even look at Silva once there, steadfastly giving Moop his unwavering attention. Her ears twitched and she baa’d excitedly when the dogs followed just behind them, held in place by their leashes. Chrollo shushed her and petted her head, scratching behind her ears as he waited for Silva to move. It only took a few minutes for Silva to grow tired of being ignored. Digging his heels into his horse, he started up a brisk pace, letting the witch walk fast to keep up. 

The sun rose up slowly, warming their backs as they traveled, leaving the forest to walk along its outer edges. With the change in landscape came a gentle breeze, and with the rolling plains came the lamb’s incessant need to bleat. If she smelled the soft grasses and wanted to graze, Silva couldn’t tell, but it only took an hour to grow tedious instead of charming. Within another few minutes, it quickly turned grating. 

“Would you shut that thing up?!” Silva heard Ivar groan, but he didn’t bother to look back at him. Before, the lamb has been too tired and weak to make much noise, but now, her bleats held a louder edge to them than they had ever held before. “I swear, I’m going mad!” A murmur of general asset rumbled through the ranks. 

Chrollo huffed a little, pulling her closer to his side. Her voice carried a bit louder now, narrating her thoughts as they passed by a field of wild alfalfa. “Maybe if I were given milk, she wouldn’t be so hungry,” he muttered to himself, but Silva heard, and so did a few of the nearest men. “You’ve only yourself to blame.” 

Silva sighed, knowing they appreciated Chrollo smarting off about as much as he did. Given the morning they’d had because of the witch, Silva readied himself to intervene in case worse came to worst. 

“What, can’t just suckle her yourself?” Oskarr laughed, his jeering, rough voice loud in the soft morning air. “Won’t be fucked, won’t give milk, so what are you good for, bitch?”

“I’m not sure,” Chrollo sighed, looking over his shoulder at the men berating him. “Perhaps you should ask your wife?”

A rush of movement caught his attention, just a blur of shiny silver and a rattle of armor. Silva turned just in time to see Oskarr take a swing at the talkative lamb in her bag, and, before he could even shout for him to stand down, Chrollo was retaliating. 

After the confrontation earlier, Silva shouldn’t have been surprised to see Chrollo spitting flames and churning the earth beneath his feet. He shouldn’t have been surprised when Oskarr reared back, beard on fire and screaming bloody murder as he swatted at the singed hair. The ranks of men hardened by battle and bloodshed shrank back from the enraged witch, and all the while, Moop chattered and bleated, her odd, bent ear flicking in the air as Chrollo threatened fifty warriors on her behalf. 

Silva shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. 

He got over it fast. There was no time to stand by in shock, not when Oskarr was rallying, frothing at the mouth in his anger. His beard was patchy and near gone, and no manner of physical restraint was going to be enough to hold him back. Silva yanked hard on his reins and put his horse between Chrollo and the raging thane. “Stand down!” he shouted, readying himself to dismount if Oskarr refused to listen. 

“Silva!” Oskarr shouted right back, spittle raining down as he shook with his fury. “Did you see what that bitch just did?!”

“I saw you try to hit a lamb the size of your boot. Are you really so threatened by a noisy beast that you throw away your own pride?” he grated, praying Chrollo would keep his mouth shut and not add to the already tense situation any more than he already had. “You provoked the he-witch.”

Oskarr’s face was mottled red, his body shaking. “Are you taking his side?” he hissed, and the men grew silent. Another challenge to his authority, Silva thought, narrowing his eyes. Chrollo was either bad luck or just plain bad for his image. What an utter mess. 

“Seeing as without the he-witch we have no way to stop what is killing our kindred, I should think that keeping the brat alive would trump what little blow he dealt to your thin pride, Oskarr,” Silva gritted, finding his own anger swept up into a roaring fire alongside the rest. “Stand down. The lamb is not hurting you and the boy isn’t either.”

Watery blue eyes narrowed, but Oskarr seemed to listen. “Fine,” he grunted, shooting an acidic glare at the apathetic witch. “Lucky for that bitch, some of us are capable of growing a beard, let alone a new one.”

“How fortunate for you-” Chrollo began to retort, but Silva was faster. He nudged the witch hard with his horse, nearly knocking him off his feet. 

“Shut your mouth too,” he snapped, reaching down to grab Chrollo by the hood of his cloak, dragging him ahead with him and away from the still-fuming ranks. “If I have to stop again because of you, I’ll let you walk with them for a mile and see how argumentative you still are.”

“As if I couldn’t just kill them all,” Chrollo muttered. Silva had the sneaking suspicion he wasn’t meant to hear him. 

The mood was tense for the rest of the trip, all conversation muted and muddled. Silva kept his face forward, feeling the glares on the back of his neck as hot as the sun and just as unrelenting. Chrollo did his best to keep Moop entertained, calming her constant bleats to the only occasional baa. He talked back to her, turning her chitchat into a conversation, soothing her with his own voice which was admittedly, much more pleasant to listen to. Silva kept up an easy pace, the land disappearing beneath their feet. Within an hour or two, they caught sight of the village in the distance, its high walls visible even a league away. 

The village ahead was larger than the one before, and, thankfully, still standing. What smoke he saw curling up towards the sky was the product of hearthfire, and even from outside the defensive gates, he could see a few people milling about within, catching sight of them and scrambling to receive them. Silva straightened his spine and rode through the gates first, Chrollo jogging a little to keep up with him. There was no fanfare to signal their arrival, but at least there were people here to greet them instead of just the cold stench of soot and death. 

“Who comes this day?” an old, gnarled voice called, and Silva looked down, spotting a man who had to be the village chieftain. “Friend or foe?”

“I am Jarl Silva, of the North,” he said, dismounting as a show of faith. His men paused by the entrance, but he gestured for Chrollo to stay with him. Given the witch’s mouth, that was the safest place for him to be. “I’ve come to ask for news on the plague. I heard tell that it has touched your village.”

Even from a distance he could make out the weight upon the man’s shoulders. The chieftain nodded his head, walking forward to meet Silva halfway. “It has,” he said, his voice immeasurably tired and immeasurably sorrowful. “Had it not, we may have had people enough to greet a man such as yourself properly. I hope that I alone may suffice, as those who remain are not many in number, and they fear anything strange that comes through those gates.”

Understandable. Sickness and death bred disquiet and distrust like nothing else. Silva turned and looked to his men. “Should my men remain outside, then?” he asked. “I know your people must have suffered greatly. I don’t wish to add to their hardships.”

“No, no,” the elderly man said, opening his arms in a show of his good will. “They must come inside. It would be an honor to offer you respite, if we are able. Perhaps your presence here will calm the mood. It has not been easy for us.”

He could imagine. Silva waved his men inside, letting them take his horse from Chrollo who had busied himself with petting her as they spoke. “I have many questions, if you don’t mind answering,” Silva said, too impatient to wait for the usual formalities. There was no time for them to rest on their laurels, and given the near barren feel of the village, he had an inkling that the chieftain knew that as well. 

“Walk with me, if you will,” he said soberly, gesturing him closer, towards the inner part of the village. “Your men can rest and eat, as well as your horses.” The chieftain waved to a young boy just peeking out of a hovel, his eyes wide and hair a sandy blond. “My grandson can settle them while we speak.”

“Thank you,” Silva said, trusting Chrollo to follow them as he walked at the elder’s side. His men would appreciate the rest, given the way their morning had started. “Your hospitality is appreciated. We are very grateful.”

The man nodded and Silva walked at his side, pausing the conversation as he took in the empty homes and empty paths. It was the height of morning, and yet there was no sign of life within the place. Homes stood closed off like tombs, tools and bric a brac scattered around as if forgotten in a great haste. He watched for a moment as Chrollo snooped around the abandoned objects, falling behind to let Moop out of her bag, her eager squirming too much to ignore. So long as they kept up, Silva didn’t much care what they did. Chrollo was smart enough to keep out of trouble, or so he hoped. 

He kept one eye on the witch as he moved through the small town, refusing to let him slip away like he’d done the day before. They couldn’t afford to lose him again, especially in a village already known to host the völva-killing sickness. “What news have you on the plague?” Silva asked, his voice lowered in respect to the chieftain and his situation. “How many have you lost? How many still remain?” It didn’t take much to see that the village was barren of both people and property. 

The elderly man let out a low sigh, his eyes tired but his visage stalwart. “What news I have is that it is already here,” he said, running his hand down his beard. “It has taken many, but those whom it passed by still fled regardless. They fear the sickness following after them, and though it is far from spring, they felt they might do better outside the walls of the village.” He paused, taking a look around the area, devoid of life. “Our numbers were halved, and then the fear did the rest. Only a few families remain, as well as the men without attachments.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Silva saw Chrollo crouch down at the edge of an abandoned home, his lamb tugging at the edge of his cloak trying to coax him into play. Silva huffed out a breath and looked back to the elder. “What of raiders?” he asked next. “The last village we visited was completely ransacked. If a raiding party has made it its goal to pillage all the plague has weakened, you may be at risk as well.”

The chieftain seemed a bit distracted by Chrollo too. His eyes didn’t leave the witch as he spoke. “We’ve already seen raiders,” he murmured, his brow furrowing when he watched Chrollo lay a hand to the soil. “What is that boy doing?”

Shit. Silva cleared his throat pointedly, but even that didn’t break Chrollo from whatever it was he was doing. “Ignore him,” he said instead, frowning when he succeeded in getting the lamb’s attention. Moop abandoned Chrollo’s cloak and trotted over to where Silva and the chieftain were, bleating eagerly for the attention Chrollo wasn’t giving her. Silva scooped her up to keep her quiet. “What do you mean you’ve already seen raiders?” he asked, hoping to draw the conversation back to where it needed to be. “When did they come here?”

“Before the plague arrived,” the elder huffed. “That lamb looks underfed,” he told Silva. “They don’t bleat like that if they’re well-fed.”

“She doesn’t have a mother,” Silva said, feeling awfully defensive. Or, he amended to himself, a mother capable of producing milk, that he knew of. “Did they do anything? Your village looks unharmed.”

“They tried, but we were able to push them back. It didn’t seem like they were too keen on engaging us. They scoured the village as if searching for something and then were forced out once the nightwatch took notice of them.” As he spoke, his eyes never left Moop. “Are you intending to let the poor creature starve?” he asked, giving Silva a cool look.

Of course, Chrollo was still poking around that home, blind and deaf to the judgement being dished out upon Silva for the lamb he’d told him to abandon. He felt his cheeks heat with indignity. “We were hoping to trade for some milk while here,” Silva said, his jaw tensed. “Do you know what they were searching for?”

Instead of answering, the chieftain gestured for him to walk with him. Silva blinked and looked down at Moop, who seemed all too happy to be carried in his arms. A glance at Chrollo told him that he was being largely ignored, so, with a sigh, Silva followed, making sure to keep the witch in sight as he walked with the man through the empty paths. All the while, Moop kept up a constant stream of chatter, bleating and baaing in hopes of dragging Silva into the conversation that Chrollo always seemed to keep up when she got talkative. 

“She really is a chatterbox, isn’t she?” the chieftain chuckled, ducking into one of the hovels. He was only gone for a moment, popping back out before Silva could follow him inside. “Here,” he said, handing over a small skein. “One man’s bad fortune shouldn’t lead to a chain of misery. Let the small thing eat.”

That was kinder than expected. Silva nodded and took the skein, tucking it into his bag before the little lamb smelled the milk within and fussed. Chrollo could feed her later. Silva wouldn’t lower himself to doing everything for the witch. “Thank you,” he said gruffly, letting the man stroke the lamb’s head. “But you didn’t answer my question. What were they searching for?”

“I thought you already knew,” the chieftain said. “Since your boy over there is digging around where they were found.”

Silva’s eyes widened. “They were outside of that home?” he asked, and even Moop seemed to fall silent from the weight of the conversation. “Whose home was that?”

“It belonged to one of the families,” he said solemnly, his tone alone telling Silva well enough what had befallen them. “They were hosting a traveling völva, one who was aiding us. We lost her first, a week after the disturbance, and then the family followed soon after.”

“Who was next to grow ill?” Silva asked, a mounting disquiet forming in the pit of his stomach. 

The chieftain looked to the ground. “It was like a cloth unraveling,” he said. “Their neighbors were stricken then, and then their neighbors beyond. Soon, not even those on the outskirts of the village were spared. Soon,” he sighed, “those who were spared fled, for fear their luck might run out.”

It didn’t take much to know that those raiders hadn’t come searching for something. Moop wriggled in his arm, fussing and shifting and bleating. Silva stroked down her back absentmindedly, his thoughts too loud for her voice to penetrate. Whatever was happening was happening on purpose, and with undeniable intent. “Have you heard of other villages experiencing the same?” he asked quietly, and Moop bleated again, her head craned back to look behind Silva’s arm.

The chieftain opened his mouth to answer, his brow furrowed and his hand out to pet the fidgeting lamb’s head, but the words never came. In the time it took to blink, an arrow cut by, imbedding itself in the man’s throat. His hand paused, his eyes widened, and his mouth opened and closed, no sound left to be made beyond a soft, sucking gasp. Silva watched him fall so slowly, time stuttering to a near standstill. Another arrow flew by, slicing through the air, catching his hair but not much else. Moop screamed and Silva watched the chieftain fall silent, his blood staining the dirt. 

“Raiders!” a voice shouted, and suddenly the air filled with the sounds of combat, a deluge of sound rushing in to fill the cold, stricken void. 

They’d come back to finish what they started, Silva realized. They had returned, and Silva had the last völva in the entire kingdom right in the middle of it. 


	4. Chapter 4

When the shouting broke out, Chrollo hardly even registered it. Call it unawareness, or even negligence, but he had been around the men enough to expect loud noises and guttural cries. It was when he heard Moop scream that he looked up from the churning, hate-steeped earth, a note of panic shooting through him as he frantically searched for the lamb that was no longer at his side.

What was happening? Chrollo looked around in a daze, catching sight of flashing steel and unfamiliar men. Where had they come from? The air was alive with the scent of rust and magic, and for a moment, Chrollo lived the feeling that had taken root in the soil. 

Cold, liquid clarity washed over him in a wave. Whatever had happened at the other villages was happening now. The final purge of the survivors was happening, and Moop was nowhere to be found.

The pain of being shot wasn’t apparent at first, given his fixation on finding his lost lamb in the midst of a battle. Chrollo felt the arrow brush his thigh, and then heard the sound of it thud into the wood of the house in front of him. He felt the warm wetness of blood as it ran down his leg, but the pain seemed far off. Distant. He stared down at the wound without seeing it. Time and sound froze, Chrollo let out a harsh breath, and then it all came crashing back in as Silva shouted his name. 

“Chrollo! Wake up and  _ run _ !”

It was as if a dam had broken, releasing the pent up sound all at once in a crippling wave of fear and fury. The village erupted into a maelstrom of screams and shouts and clanging, clattering metal, churning faster than the eye could follow. Chrollo tried to make himself as small a target as he could, scrambling at the ground for traction on a leg that wouldn’t quite obey his commands. What was happening? Where was Moop? Silva was roaring something to his men, but the growing din of fighting grew too loud to hear through. Chrollo ran towards the Jarl as fast as he could once he saw the lamb in his arms, the pain negligible while his heart pounded like a furious drum. 

Cold, angry blue eyes met his own, and Silva grabbed for Chrollo the moment he could, tucking him under his arm to drag him off into the nearby woods. “We have to run for it,” he grunted, far more composed than Chrollo felt. He shoved Moop into Chrollo’s arms, calming the worry her absence had caused, letting him worry about the rest instead. 

“But the horses-”

“Forget about the horses! We can’t let you die here,” the Jarl growled, forcing his head down as they tore through the trees. The sound of pursuit was loud and cacophonous behind them. “Don’t look back. They can take care of themselves.”

There was no time to argue. He didn’t have the breath to, and Moop was petrified in his arms. Silva covered Chrollo with his body as they moved, just as a volley of arrows tore through the trees, thudding and cracking as they connected with wood and bramble. 

“Keep your head down!” Silva said. Chrollo kept his head down, praying it would be enough, but knowing that, logically, it wouldn’t be. 

His lungs burned, throbbing and aching in time to the gash on his thigh. Chrollo willed the forest to hide them, to keep them safe, to take the blows from the arrows so that they might miss Silva and Chrollo. Moop hid her face in his shirt and trembled like a leaf in a storm. “Just a little bit more,” Chrollo wheezed, wasting the breath he didn’t have to reassure the frightened lamb. “Moop, I promise, you’ll be safe.”

“Over here!” Silva hissed, grabbing Chrollo by the scruff of his neck to throw him down a shallow hill. There was no warning beyond those rushed words and Chrollo cursed violently as he lost balance and hit the ground hard, doing all he could to fall on his shoulder and not on the petrified animal in his arms. Rocks and brambles cut his skin, sending his already wounded leg screaming, but Chrollo knew that he couldn’t cry out, lest they be found. 

At least Silva was right behind him, skidding down the hill with his head craned back, searching for any sight of those pursuing them. “Stay silent,” Silva mouthed, not bothering to look to make sure Chrollo saw. “And keep that damn lamb quiet.”

It was almost comical how he said that when his own plodding footsteps were far louder than any sound Moop might make. Regardless, Chrollo placed a hand gently around the lamb’s muzzle, whispering silent words of power to keep her calm and keep her quiet. She was safe, he imbued in her. Safe and sound in Chrollo’s arms. The din of the searching enemies tore through the land above them. Chrollo told her that they were far away, that no matter how hard they searched, they would never find her. 

Minutely, she relaxed in his arms, looking nearly asleep. Silva crawled cautiously over to them, a finger to his lips to say that it wasn’t safe to speak yet. Chrollo gave a marked nod towards a thicket of trees that might further hide their presence. Silva followed his lead without complaint, trusting him now when it came to the forest. 

_ Tell me where it is safe,  _ Chrollo asked the roots beneath him, hiding his limp in the movements of his body, swaying along with the wind through the treetops.  _ Tell me where they will never look.  _ Silva looked confused and furious in equal parts, but he paused when Chrollo held up a hand, pointing him to the left when he was about to head right. 

“A clearing ahead,” Chrollo mouthed, pushing him to lead. “It’s safe.”

The mood was tense, made all the more dire by the sounds of baying hounds and clattering arms echoing through the trees around them. Adrenaline rushed through Chrollo’s veins steadily, a cocktail of nervous energy that made him hold Moop a little too tight. He guided Silva with a tap to his shoulder, and before long, they came upon a thick patch of brambles. 

“Through here,” he mouthed, and Silva turned up his nose. 

“You can’t be serious,” the Jarl whispered, forgetting himself in his annoyance. 

Chrollo rolled his eyes and glanced around them a moment. When he knew they were alone, he drew his staff’s tip across Silva’s chest, and then his own. “You won’t be harmed,” he murmured, the magic collecting behind his eyes in a way that meant they were faintly glowing. “Now, lead the way.” There was no way Chrollo was going first. Not with Moop in his arms. 

Silva, thankfully, didn’t say anything or complain further. He trusted what Chrollo had done, plunging into the brambles and thorns with a stalwart grimace that looked more at home on a battlefield than in a thorn patch. Chrollo didn’t comment, but he did keep close to the enormous man, following in his footsteps to let him part the way. 

Just as the roots had told him, the thicket opened up to a small clearing. Silva glanced around, taking in the space with a critical eye as Chrollo struggled to catch his breath. Now that he could make noise, he let out a low sigh, looking down at Moop’s warm black eyes. She was safe. Chrollo kissed her again and again, so proud of her for keeping quiet. “Good girl,” he whispered into her bent little ear. “My good little girl.”

The sound of a throat being cleared broke him away from his praising. Silva stood looking at him, his mouth set in a hard line. “Step up camp while I scout,” Silva ordered, ignoring the fact that Chrollo would be far better at something like that than the bulky man. “Don’t move from this spot.”

They’d only just found safety, but Chrollo knew well enough that not knowing the positions of the enemy would do them more harm than good. “Be careful,” he warned, moving away from the edge of the clearing. “I still feel them nearby.”

Silva nodded and slipped back through the thickets and brambles. He moved swifter than Chrollo thought possible, and he hoped it would be enough to evade detection. But, he thought, turning back to the clearing in front of him, he had other things to worry about if they were to make it through the rapidly approaching night. 

Letting Moop down to curl up in the soft grass, Chrollo set to gathering things to make a fire. The night would be cold, and fire was a necessity. He gathered the kindling scattered about the clearing, Moop helping by carrying sticks in her mouth and tossing them to and fro to tell Chrollo that she had found something. With her help, he was able to make up a fire bundle, and with a little more effort and Moop safely tucked in her bag, he was able to venture deep enough into the thicket to gather enough firewood to last them a few hours, at most. 

Dusting his hands off, Chrollo stared down at the stacks of wood, the fire bundle tucked within and ready for lighting. If they needed more wood, he supposed they could get more later. Silva probably wouldn’t allow for a fire until he knew for certain that there was no chance of the enemy forces seeing it, so they still had time yet before he needed to light it. “I think we did all we can do for now,” he said down to Moop, setting her down to let her run and skip. A glance at the sky told him that they had maybe an hour of light left. “I guess we just wait for him to come back.” 

Even as he said it, he wondered how much he could just sit and do nothing, waiting for Silva to return. Was there anything else he could do? He knew better than to wander and he didn’t want to risk Moop’s safety by doing it regardless. The birds in the trees above seemed to mock his indecision, flitting around his head in a show of grace and freedom that Chrollo couldn’t imagine emulating. Perhaps one day, he thought, smiling as Moop chased a butterfly, her tail wagging happily. He could imagine living a good life with Moop, so long as they were left alone. 

Rustling trees and snapping twigs killed the peaceful mood. Chrollo folded himself onto his knees, readying himself with his staff in one hand and the other already snapping for Moop to come. A figure breached the tree line and the dying sun glinted off white-gold hair, Silva’s familiar, dour face emerging no worse for wear. 

“Did you find anything?” he asked, setting Moop down when she began to bleat and wriggle beneath his hand, eager to greet Silva. “Are they still around?”

“No. And there’s no sign of my men either. We must have run in different directions. Start a fire while I dress this,” Silva ordered, nodding at the hare he held by the ears. It was fat and plump, full from its early spring grazing. When had he time to catch that? Chrollo hadn’t thought him capable of hunting anything without his dogs. “Keep anything wet or damp away from the flames. We don’t want smoke if we can help it.”

He didn’t wait for Chrollo to agree before wandering off to the far end of the clearing, unsheathing his hunting knife to gut the rabbit away from where they would ostensibly be sleeping. Chrollo wanted to watch, to ask maybe for the heart, but he forced himself to busy himself with the fire instead, knowing that Silva would probably save those parts for himself, if he didn’t just discard it outright. To a völva, the hearts of living things were sacred, something that should be savored and respected and only consumed by völva. 

“Stay back, Moop,” he whispered to the lamb, guiding her gently away from the fire stack. “I don’t want you getting toasted, okay?” She complied easily enough and Chrollo leaned over the kindling, striking his flint and then blowing softly and steadily when a spark caught some dried grass. 

Before long, the small sticks caught fire too, growing and growing until they had a small fire at the ready. Moop had wandered over towards Silva and his gruesome work, and Chrollo called her back quietly, wanting her to be spared the sight and smell of the rabbit’s blood. Knowing how curious she was, Chrollo wouldn’t have been surprised if she stuck her nose in the entrails, just to see what they were. 

By the time Silva finished with his work, taking long enough that Chrollo half thought the man had never skinned a rabbit before, the sun had lowered another few fingers’ widths and the fire had burned down into a hot bed of coals. Moop lay curled up in the fork of his legs, the bloody rip of his wound hidden by her soft, warm body. The pain was beginning to filter in now that the energy of before had faded, but Chrollo swallowed it down, soothing himself with the comforting motions of petting the lamb’s fleece. 

“Here,” Silva said gruffly, tossing down the skinned hare in front of Chrollo. “Put that on the fire.”

Was he really going to ignore him except when it came to ordering him around? Chrollo wrapped an arm around Moop and held her against his chest, eyeing the rabbit and then Silva. “Is there a reason you can’t do it yourself?” Chrollo asked, reaching with one hand for his bag of gathered herbs. He’d found some medicinal ones while walking, but a few could be used for seasonings, though he doubted Silva would really care all that much either way. 

“Cooking is women’s work,” Silva grunted. 

Chrollo’s hands stalled above the meat. He turned his head to look at the Jarl, jaw set in a tight frown. “And I’m as good as a woman in your eyes, is that right?” he posed, hating how Silva didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed of his behavior. 

Silva had laid himself out on the ground, back propped up by a thick tree. He cracked open a closed eye. “As good as a woman? I’d  _ rather _ a woman,” he scoffed, bringing his arms behind his head to soften his resting spot. “A woman would know her place. You don’t seem to understand your position, no matter how often you’re reminded of it.”

The words hit him but no pain arose. Instead, Chrollo felt numb, and that more than anything worried him. He didn’t want to grow accustomed to this treatment. “A human being’s place isn’t yours to decide,” he said softly, laying the rabbit out on top of the smoldering coals. “Is there shame in doing what a woman does? You’ve got a mother. You may have sisters. You may one day have a wife, daughters.” Chrollo broke away from the fire to take in the warrior and for a moment, he thought that Silva may have been listening. “The only power we’re subservient to is that of the gods.”

“The gods grant magic to women,” Silva grunted, his eyes closed to show that he didn’t consider their conversation worth continuing. “So what does that make you?”

Chrollo wiped his hands clean and cradled Moop within his cloak, trailing his lips over her soft, bent ear. The night would be cold and she needed to be kept warm more than anything. “They grant magic to anyone who seeks it,” he corrected softly, laying down to stare up at the tree covered sky. “It’s you who limits it to only women, for fear of putting yourself on an imaginary level below what you think you occupy.”

There was silence after that, broken only by the rhythmic popping and cracking of the wood within the fire and the soft sizzle of fat dripping onto the coals. The scent of the rabbit filled the small clearing, forcing Chrollo’s perpetual hunger to the forefront of his attention. Would Silva share, or was it an unspoken rule that the food wasn’t for him? Moop blinked her small, dark eyes, her long lashes tickling the skin of Chrollo’s collar bones. Chrollo didn’t have much energy left, the throbbing in his leg sapping any strength the adrenaline might have given him. He needed to find food for Moop, if nothing else, before it grew too dark to see. 

He moved to stand, and that was when Silva decided to open his eyes, sitting up with a frown on his face. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked as if he half expected Chrollo to make a run for it or even attack him. Chrollo just rolled his eyes, too tired to deal with the man’s anxieties. 

“Moop needs food, and I’m out of bread,” he mumbled, the sudden shift from sitting to standing blackening his vision for a moment. Moop gave a soft bleat, concerned at how he trembled, but Chrollo just held her tighter and willed his vision to clear. 

“So what, you think you can find something in the woods?” Silva asked incredulously. “They’re still hunting us. You’re not leaving my sight, witch.”

Oh, Chrollo huffed. So now he was just “witch”. It was a marked improvement but still hardly what he wanted to hear. “I know the forest far better than you could ever hope to,” he replied, turning away from the fire to let his eyes adjust to the growing darkness. “I’ll be back within a half hour. Just wait for your rabbit to cook, if that isn’t more women’s work for you to delegate.”

For a man his size, Chrollo was surprised to see just how fast Silva could move when properly spurned and disobeyed. Before he could even turn around, Silva had crossed the clearing and grabbed him by the wrist, yanking him back hard enough to unbalance Chrollo. Moop baa’d and Chrollo’s wounded leg gave out a painful stab of agony, and before he could right himself, Chrollo found himself falling face first into Silva’s chest. 

The pain outshined any embarrassment he might have felt. Moop struggled weakly in his arms, unhappy at being smooshed between the two men. “Let me go,” Chrollo mumbled weakly, unable to keep the note of discomfort out of his voice. 

There was no way to see Silva’s expression but his hands tightened on Chrollo’s shoulders and he loomed close enough to feel the soft puffs of his breath ruffling Chrollo’s hair. “What’s wrong with you?” he demanded, pulling Chrollo’s face away from his chest. “Did you get hurt?”

Was that concern he heard, or just more exasperation? Somehow, if Silva really wanted to know, Chrollo had the inkling that he’d be stripped if he didn’t just tell him of the injury. “My leg,” he said, curt and through clenched teeth. Putting his weight on it was making the pain worse, and he knew that Moop could sense it. Her ears flicked wildly and she struggled more, her soft muzzle seeking out his chin as if to comfort him. 

“Show me, you fucking brat,” Silva hissed, forcing Chrollo back onto the ground without waiting for him to comply. “When did you get hurt? Who did it?” His hands yanked at the fabric of Chrollo’s cloak, nearly unsettling Moop. Chrollo yelped and grabbed for the man’s hands, his cheeks on fire. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Would you have cared?” Chrollo snapped, and Moop took the opportunity the struggle had afforded her to slip out of his cloak and onto the ground. She ran straight for Silva, jumping up onto his folded leg to head butt his chest in a desperate bid for attention. Silva glared down at her, but he ran his hand down her back before turning his glare on Chrollo. 

The expression on the Jarl’s face didn’t have a name; if it did, Chrollo didn’t know it. “Don’t be an idiot,” he gritted through bared teeth. “Show me the wound.”

Chrollo didn’t know why he felt so hot. His cheeks felt like they were on fire, and he averted his eyes as he slipped down his leggings to reveal the nasty gash. The blood was tacky and sticky, the clotted blood ripping away a bit when he yanked down the garment. He swallowed the cry in his throat and blinked away the tears, hating how heavy Silva’s eyes were upon his skin. 

“What did this?” Silva asked, crisp and clinical, even as he grabbed Chrollo under the knees and arms to carry him closer to the light of the fire. “An arrow, a sword? One of my men?” 

Chrollo clung to the man’s shirt and didn’t let his distress show at being moved so easily without his permission. “Get Moop, you brute,” he muttered, wriggling and fussing until Silva let out an irritated growl and scooped up the little lamb, depositing her onto Chrollo’s stomach. 

“Tell me,” Silva repeated, louder this time, setting Chrollo down roughly beside the fire. “What did this? How long ago? Did you treat it?”

“Does it look like I treated it?” Chrollo muttered, tugging his shirt down to cover the parts of himself that Silva didn’t need to see. “It was an arrow. It grazed me as we were running. I didn’t think you’d care enough to let me take care of it, so I kept my mouth shut and kept moving. Isn’t that the  _ manly _ thing to do?”

It was almost humorous how Silva didn’t have a retort for that. He clenched his jaw and glared at the wound hard enough that Chrollo thought he might be trying to cauterize it with his sight alone. “Shut up,” he said lamely, grabbing a handful of Chrollo’s cloak. 

Chrollo knew what he was planning on doing before he did it, and with a yelp and a shove, he pushed Silva away before he could rip his cloak. “Don’t you even think about it,” he hissed, bundling up his cloak in his arms protectively. It was one of the few things he had left from his mother, and he’d rather leave his leg untreated than ruin it. 

Silva was getting angry. Chrollo could see it in the hard line of his jaw and the tense set of his shoulders. His nostrils flared and cold, blue eyes closed. Chrollo held his breath, waiting for the man to force his way, to do what he wanted regardless. 

Moop let out a loud bleat, cutting the tension down the middle like a knife. Silva flinched and seemed to come back to himself, looking down at the lamb with something undefinable in his eyes. He reached for the sleeve of his own shirt, ripping a strip from the expensive garment without saying a single word. The light provided by the fire was dim, but Chrollo didn’t need much to see the scars on Silva’s bicep or the heavy braids around his wrist. The sight sent a pang of loss through Chrollo’s heart. He probably didn’t even know what they were. In quick, practised moves, Silva wet the cloth with water from his skein and cleaned the wound on Chrollo’s thigh, yanking Chrollo’s attention pack to the present. Blood flowed and Chrollo winced, but he knew it had to be done. 

“There are some herbs in my bag,” he said softly, biting his lip when Silva looked up from his work to meet his eyes. “If you’re going to wrap it.”

The longer Silva stayed silent, the more on edge Chrollo grew. Moop sensed it too, hovering around in a concerned trot, nosing Chrollo’s side and then Silva’s knee, offering her thoughts all the while. The Jarl stood without a word and moved the rabbit from the fire, ignoring his small black and white shadow. Once that was done, he snatched up Chrollo’s bag and tossed it to him. “Get them out,” he grunted, dropping back to his knees to rinse clean the wound. 

For as much as Silva refused to treat him like the völva he was, he certainly seemed to be familiar enough with proper etiquette to know not to dip his hands into a völva’s bag. Chrollo opened the satchel and sorted through the dried plants for the herbs that would ward off the pain. They might help prevent infection, though it wouldn’t do much good if it was already infected. Perhaps ignoring it for so long was a mistake, but it was too late for hindsight to play any part in it. 

“Here,” he offered, and Silva took them without a word, layering them thickly over the wound before binding the rinsed cloth around his thigh. 

Silva’s fingers didn’t take long to cover the wound, but they did burn for the moment they touched his bare skin. His touch didn’t linger, but his eyes did, staring at Chrollo’s thigh until the silence became too heavy to bear. Chrollo pulled away enough to slip his leggings back up. “Thank you,” he gave, just as Silva turned back to the rabbit. His knife came out again, hacking and slashing until the bones gave way and the flesh parted. “It feels better now.”

“Eat this,” he got in return, Silva tossing the hare’s hind legs to him. “I’ve got milk in my bag for the lamb.”

He did? “Why?” Chrollo couldn’t imagine the logic behind carrying milk out here unless Silva had planned from the start to give it to Moop. Perhaps Silva was finally starting to act like a decent human being. “Why are you feeding us now, of all times?” The meat from the rabbit was hot in his fingers, juices and fat dripping a bit when he took a cautious bite. It’d been awhile since he’d last eaten meat. The gamey flavor was nearly overwhelming. Silva had given him the meatiest parts of the animal too and Chrollo knew it would be naive to think he’d done so for no reason.

Silva tore into his portion of the rabbit instead of answering. Moop, who had been gravitating towards Silva from the moment she had freed herself from Chrollo’s grasp, eagerly hopped around the bulky man, skipping and jumping as if asking for his undivided attention. “Can’t you keep this thing in line?” he grumbled through a mouthful of rabbit. She trotted to his side and began the arduous task of scaling his thick thigh, determined to find her way into his lap whether he wanted her to be there or not. 

Chrollo laughed weakly, picking at the meat balanced on his knee. She was going to tumble over if she kept it up. “She’s just having fun. It won’t hurt you to let her wander.” If anything, her sticking close to Silva was a good thing. He was far bigger than Chrollo, and he could probably keep her warmer than Chrollo could alone. 

Silva rolled his eyes and set aside his meal, wiping his hands on his trousers to heft Moop in one hand. Instead of putting her in his lap, he held her up in the air, looking at her from all angles, taking in the care Chrollo had given her. “She’s still scrawny,” he criticized, raising a single brow when Moop bleated weakly from his hand. 

“And who’s fault is that?” Chrollo asked, leaning back on his hands, sucking on a leg bone long stripped of its meat. He wanted more, but he knew he’d seen Silva at his most gracious already. He wouldn’t likely see more food for awhile, so it was better to be grateful for what he’d been given. Who knows how long it’d be until he saw another generous streak like this.

That reminded him: Moop still needed to be fed. “You said you had milk?” He made as if to get up, to go over to Silva’s bag, but Silva held up a hand and put Moop on the ground, standing up to get it himself. Was it to keep Chrollo off his leg? Or did Silva simply want to keep the he-witch out of his things? It was hard to tell with Silva, but the thought of the former still made his head spin. 

“Here,” was the only warning Chrollo received before Silva tossed a small skein at him. Chrollo caught it easily enough. It was heavy. Full. 

“Moop,” he called, clicking his tongue. As suspicious as he was, he wasn’t going to turn down food for Moop. She needed all the good fortune she could get. “Baby, come here. Dinner time.” The milk wasn’t very warm, but he could solve that with a few words and a bit of intent. 

At the word ‘dinner,’ Moop came running. She leaped away from Silva’s boots and skidded messily to a stop at Chrollo’s side, hopping excitedly around him as he readied the skein. There was no way to feed it to her naturally, no bottle or teat that he could use to make it easier on her small mouth. The best he could come up with was to bunch up a bit of his cloak, layering it over the mouth of the skein. “Come here, baby,” he crooned, taking her under his arm to hold her head up. The moment the milk-soaked fabric came in contact with her mouth, she was sucking eagerly, frantically, taking in the nutrients she needed so dearly but had been denied due to the egos of rotten men. 

Which, if Chrollo were to be honest with himself, was why they were even in this current situation. “Who were those men?” Chrollo asked after a moment of silence. Moop suckled hungrily at the improvised teat, spilling milk all over her black snout. Carefully, he readjusted her mouth around it, wiping up the mess in hopes that she wouldn’t waste more of the food she might not get again anytime soon. “They came out of nowhere, almost like they had been tracking us.”

“I know the make of those swords,” Silva said quietly. “They belong to my enemies to the west. A better question is what were they doing so deep in my territory.”

Chrollo wasn’t about to pretend to know the political machinations of this kingdom, let alone a foreign one. “They felt familiar to me,” he admitted, recalling the strange aura lingering around that first village. “I think they’re the ones causing all of the sickness here.” It was very likely they had their own cache of völva, cursing the air or the water or some other carrier to target those who might rise up to oppose them. 

Silva grinded his teeth, his hands forming fists on his knees. “Their king, Snorre, has long tried to best me. To think he would go this far. Did they think that targeting my people at large might spare them resistance?” 

“I think it was more likely they were trying to target the kingdom’s völva, or even just those able to command magic, like midwives and soothsayers,” Chrollo sighed. All of the female völva had died, or so Silva had told him. That was too specific to be coincidence. “They targeted it to seem like a plague,” like an indiscriminate killer of all regardless of gender, class, or age. “The deaths of the völva say otherwise.”

Though he could hardly boast of being levelheaded, Silva was beginning to look uncharacteristically angry. “Cowards,” he muttered, glaring out into the night as if he could somehow see the enemy men among the faraway trees. “Spineless rats. Too fear-soaked to meet me on the field of battle, but they find honor enough in killing women and children just to see me weakened.”

Chrollo let out a bit of a huff. “Is there that much more honor in going to war?” he asked, pinning Silva with his gaze. 

“Of course there is,” he grunted, crossing his arms. “A man would never involve those who have no place on a battlefield.”

“But you’ll slaughter a child’s father. A wife’s husband,” Chrollo said pointedly, brow raised. “You’ll destroy families that way, but it’s permissible because you don’t do it directly.”

Silva gaped at him, as if Chrollo were speaking nonsense. “What sort of logic is that?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. 

“Apparently the sort you never considered,” Chrollo muttered, letting Moop suck on his fingers for want of the milk she couldn’t have. “War isn’t honorable. It’s bloody. Cruel.” He met Silva’s eyes. “It makes men do terrible things in a world already made terrible by men.”

There was a moment of silence. “You know nothing of war,” Silva murmured, staring into the fire’s licking flames. “You know nothing at all, boy. My people are dying in droves due to the conceit and cowardice of one man’s greed.” He punched the ground suddenly, startling Moop. Cold blue eyes met his. “They die before they can fight back.”

Silva could say it however he wanted. It was horrible, but there was nothing to be done by getting so angry at a man doing what men do. “I don’t know why you’re getting worked up,” Chrollo said, soothing Moop with a hand down her back. “What’s done is done. You can’t bring back those who have died, but I can fix the rest, so just be grateful that you have the name of the real ones responsible for all that’s befallen you.”

“Then fix things,” Silva demanded, his eyes hard in a way that Chrollo had thought they’d lost, given the tone of the evening. “Fix things right now and put things back to how they were. You know the enemy now, the source of it all, so end this.”

He felt sick at the very thought. Silva was so woefully ignorant of things. He didn’t know the first thing about magic, and it didn’t seem like he cared to listen. “That’s not how it works,” Chrollo said regardless, pulling the milk away from Moop before she could gorge herself. Her sides felt a little fuller, her stomach full enough now that she didn’t need any more, no matter how much she said otherwise. “Knowing is only one part of it. My magic isn’t strong enough right now to do something that big.” The skein was still half full, so if he rationed her a bit, she may have enough milk to last her through the next day. 

Silva narrowed his eyes, resting his arm on his crooked knee. “I’ve seen you move the earth,” he said as if he knew anything. “I’ve seen you command the entire forest. You’re telling me you aren’t strong enough after all of those displays?”

Chrollo closed the skein of milk and hushed Moop as she complained. “You don’t understand,” he said like always. “I can do it. I just can’t do it right now. Steps have to be taken before I can do that. Ritual preparation. Physical...things.” His cheeks burned and he focused his attention solely on the lamb, wiping her messy mouth. “I’m not strong enough as I am now.”

“Then what will it take!” Silva snapped. Chrollo didn’t flinch. He wouldn’t let himself. Silva seemed to realize it himself, and he took a moment, closing his eyes to breathe in and then out. “What do you need to do?” he tried again, quieter this time. More level. “How long will it take to do it?”

“A day, two maybe,” he said vaguely, not looking away from Moop’s sleepy eyes. He stroked her bent ear absently, giving in to the sudden urge to kiss her forehead. It was as much to comfort her as it was to comfort himself. “It all depends.”

“On what?”

“On you.”

There was a pregnant pause. Silva shifted a bit, leaning forward to try and catch Chrollo’s avoidant eye. “On me,” he repeated, the question obvious. “You know I’d do anything to see this through. I threw away my pride to use you for my völva. Tell me what you need of me.”

The night felt like it was getting warmer to the point that Chrollo began to sweat. His leg burned when he moved, laying himself down with Moop tucked beneath his chin. “Nothing that you can do now,” he murmured. Nothing that Silva would ever do, anyway. “I’m going to sleep. We can look into it once we’re back.”

“No,” Silva said loudly, and Chrollo wasn’t ready for him to get closer, to close in on him and pin him in place. His face, all hard lines and cold, insistent eyes, seemed to hold Chrollo in place. There was no place to run. “You’ll tell me now,” he said quieter, his voice just a whisper in the night. The order was no less impactful for it though. 

Chrollo swallowed, clutching Moop closer. “It’s nothing we can do now-” he tried, but Silva bared his teeth and came even closer, shoving Chrollo onto his back to glare down at him. 

“Tell. Me.” 

If it came down to it, Chrollo could send Silva flying. He could summon the wind and throw him back into the thorns, or bring the roots up to drag him away. Moop didn’t seem to notice the tense atmosphere, too sleepy from her meal to care, but Chrollo shifted her away from the Jarl bearing down on him. 

“Physical things,” he said again, praying that Silva would leave it at that. 

“What kind?” the man demanded, dashing those prayers against the rocks. “Blood letting? Sacrifice? If you need blood, I’ll give it myself. If you need an animal, I’ll slaughter a bear!” Silva’s long hair tickled Chrollo’s skin, but still he refused to let the witch up. “Just tell me what you need.”

What was Chrollo supposed to say? That he needed Silva? That he needed to siphon the man’s will and might and mold it with his own in a ceremony only spoken about in hushed, furtive whispers? Chrollo closed his eyes and let out a short, stressed breath. “Why don’t you stop thinking about yourself for a minute and consider what I might need of you that would make me hesitate to tell you?” he said through clenched teeth, wishing he were anywhere but here, beneath this wild brute of a man in a forest without ears or eyes or a desire to help him. 

He could practically hear the cogs turn in Silva’s head. “Are you...are you asking me to-”

“I’m not,” Chrollo interrupted, opening his eyes to glare hotly. “You’re forcing me to tell you what I need, before I was ready to tell you myself.”

Silva seemed to stall at that. He blinked, realizing the position they were in. His jaw tensed and he narrowed his eyes, staring down at Chrollo, assessing. “If you’re asking what I think you’re asking,” he said slowly, lifting a hand to rest it on Chrollo’s thigh, the one that hadn’t been injured. “Why shouldn’t we do it now instead of later.”

Did he...Was he suggesting what Chrollo thought he was suggesting? Cheeks burning, Chrollo shoved the hand away from his leg, ignoring how blindingly warm the Jarl was. “I understand you’re desperate, but please get off of me,” he said softly, evenly. “We can talk about it later. Once we get back.” Moop opened her bleary eyes, staring up at Silva from her spot on Chrollo’s chest. 

Silva wanted to argue. He knew he wanted to argue. It was heavy in the air, in the crackle of intent that filtered through the night between them. Chrollo tugged his cloak around himself tighter, keeping Moop as close to himself as he could. 

“Okay,” the Jarl said simply, allowing the topic to die an easy death. He pulled away slowly, taking his warmth with him. “I’ll keep watch.”

He didn’t know if Silva saw him nod, the dark of his hair blending with the night like smeared soot, but Chrollo could imagine that he did. There was no way he was looking forward to that conversation. Silva would remember though, and the moment they were safe in his hall, he’d round on Chrollo and demand the answers that he was hardly ready to hear. Moop breathed softly against his collarbones, falling fast asleep with her ears twitching in time to her dreams. Chrollo wished his own rest would come so easily, and without worry. 

A thick, heavy weight chose that moment to fall on top of him, covering him head to toe. Chrollo gasped and startled, clawing at the fur mantle that had been thrown on him. “What?” he whispered, careful not to disturb Moop. Even in the dark he could recognize the ever-present fur that Silva wore when among his men. Did he… Was he being kind?

“Shut up and sleep,” came the solitary reply, ending the conversation before it could begin. 

Oh. The warmth was instant and immediate. Smoky musk filled his nose, the scent of a Jarl clinging to the fur like dew on a flower petal. Chrollo felt small beneath the thick fur mantle. Small, at peace, and warmer than he’d ever been before. Which was strange to think, Chrollo sighed, curling up around Moop’s small body. He could only wonder how long the peace would last once reality came crashing back down. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sick and i took off work so you guys can have this early leave nice comments cuz i feel like shit

The morning came in shades of grey, in thick dew on the edge of hoarfrost and with a chill that even Silva, for all his bulk and layers, felt to the marrow of his bones. His eyes stung, dry and sore from not enough sleep, but he forced them open anyway, shoving himself off the cold ground to look around the clearing. The fire was smoldering, the bright coals still alive when all else slept on. Chrollo was still, buried beneath his fur and fast asleep. Silva rubbed at his eyes and threw another log onto the ashy pile, coaxing it back into something large enough to warm.

He should have woken the witch and switched off for the watch. He should have dragged him from the ground and gotten more than an hour of sleep instead of letting him sleep. Silva groaned into his hands, his head aching from exhaustion. He was in for a miserable day at this rate, his damned pride to blame.

 _“Maaaaaaa,”_ a soft voice bleated, and Silva looked up from his hands to the small lamb crawling out from under the thick mantle. She was staring straight at him, tugging herself free before running over to him to headbutt his thigh. Dark eyes twinkled in the soft glow of the morning. At least she slept well, Silva thought begrudgingly.

“An early riser, are you?” he grunted, rolling his eyes once she began to shiver against his leg. She weighed nothing when he scooped her up, depositing her in his lap so she wouldn’t freeze away from the warmth of the bed she’d just left. “Perhaps it’s best someone here is awake and alert.”

Cocking her head, she flicked her ears and leaning into his petting hand. Silva rolled his eyes again, scratching beneath her chin. He should wake up Chrollo, he thought, staring at the fire as it finally began to grow. He should wake him and then go off to find another rabbit, or perhaps a small deer, though the latter would be very hard to catch without a bow. His men were no doubt making their way back towards the mead hall, so there was no time to waste lazing about when there was so much work yet to be done. They needed to eat, and then they needed to move.

The smiling little lamb in his lap didn’t seem to agree. Moop yawned and flicked her ears again, nuzzling his chest as he tugged gently on her strange, bent ear. Silva sighed. This was beginning to become a problem, this sudden fascination she held with him.

“Moop?” a quiet, sleep-heavy voice mumbled, and Silva lifted the lamb off his lap to deposit her on the grass at his side. “Moop?”

Silva huffed out a breath, hearing the panic already beginning to build in the boy’s voice. “She’s right here with me,” he said, glancing over his shoulder to see the witch emerge from the heavy cover of the mantle, hair a mess and eyes wide. “Unlike you, she seemed to understand that now isn’t the time to be sleeping in.”

If Chrollo heard his disapproval, he didn’t bother responding to it. Instead, he looked at Silva, combing through his thick black hair until it settled. “You look awful,” he observed, brow furrowed. “Why didn’t you wake me up? I could’ve kept watch.”

Silva turned back forward, glaring at the fire. Moop looked between him and Chrollo, bleating pitifully at his side as if to ask why he had set her aside. “Just get up,” he said, forcing himself onto his feet, the lamb hopping around underfoot trying to get his attention. “We need to meet up with the others and find out what happened.” He turned on his heel, looking down on the witch. “We’ll find food on the way.”

Chrollo blinked up at him, his cheeks flushed and eyes a bit dazed, sleep still heavy on his frame. He was sitting upright at least, his legs folded beneath the fur cover. “You haven’t slept at all, have you?” he murmured, letting out a sigh beneath his breath. “You’re only kind when no one’s looking. That’s no way to live, you know.”

“Get your ass up,” Silva grunted, stalking past him to grab his bag from the forest floor. “If you’ve got the time to run your mouth, you’ve got the time to be moving.”

“And there it goes,” the witch chuffed, letting out a wry chuckle as he stood up. “Gone the moment it’s seen. Come here, Moop. Time to get in your bag.” The lamb let out a needy bleat, trotting over to Chrollo. “I know,” he sighed, scooping her up. “We can feed you in a couple of hours, okay? We need to make your milk last.” She didn’t seem happy, but she still curled up in Chrollo’s bag regardless, bleating softly when the witch kissed her ears and slung the strap over his shoulder.

Silva hadn’t realized he was staring until Chrollo furrowed his brow, staring right back at him with a curious look on his face.

“Aren’t we in a hurry?” he asked, and Silva frowned, grabbing up his mantle before stalking towards the brambled edge of the clearing.

“We are,” Silva grunted, trusting the witch’s magic to carry him safely through the thorns. They didn’t do more than tickle, their sharp edges dulled by whatever it was that Chrollo had done. “So stop talking and move.”

He didn’t bother to look behind him, but he could hear Chrollo roll his eyes, even over the noise of their travel. “I’m not the one staring instead of walking,” he muttered.

Silva gritted his teeth but let it go. It wouldn’t do any good to get into it with him right now. Not when the situation was as it was, and them still separated from the group. Chrollo sighed when Silva failed to rise to his bait, and that was the end of it for the moment.

Silva was thankful for the silence; though, when traveling with Moop, it was never truly silent. The small lamb would periodically baa, asking for attention when Chrollo failed to look down at her or pet her every few minutes. Silva forced himself to keep his head forward, ignoring the sound of the witch cooing and chatting softly to the lamb, as if she were a baby instead of a creature typically meant for slaughter. Chrollo’s fixation on her was still a mystery to him, but as far as fixations went, it was a harmless one, so Silva kept his thoughts to himself. There was far more to worry about anyway, given the thinning trees and increasing sunlight that began to filter through the half-filled treetops.

“We’ll be breaking cover soon,” he murmured, staring up at the trees to see what time it was. They’d only been walking for a few hours, so the morning was still alive and well yet.

“And?” Chrollo asked, sounding far more tired than he should given the rest he’d been given at Silva’s expense. Silva turned to look at him, taking in his haggard appearance and the sweat dotting his brow. Had it been that difficult of a hike? Silva, for all that he hadn’t slept, still felt fine.

“And,” Silva said, rolling his shoulders with a sigh, “that means we won’t have anything to hide us should those marauders still be lurking about. I’m not sure if you noticed, witch, but even with a sword, I’m no match for a group on horseback.”

Chrollo’s eyes widened comically, and he placed a hand over his mouth in faux surprise. “Really?” he asked. “And here I was, thinking you were the strongest and noblest warrior outside of Valhalla!” When he broke out into laughter, the lamb joined in, baaing happily at the pleasant sound of the witch’s laugh. Tired as he looked, he still seemed to have energy aplenty, or at least, he did in the case of mocking Silva and his concern.

“Laugh it up, brat,” Silva said, rolling his eyes. “When they come charging at us, I’ll be interested to see how well you fare against ten men on war horses.”

“Very well, I’d think,” Chrollo chuckled, wiping a tear from his dark eye. A blush lay high on his cheeks, one that didn’t look at all like it would be leaving anytime soon. “Since you’ve sworn to keep me alive long enough to fix all of your problems for you. I’ll just duck behind you and let you prove your worth.”

What a brat. “Keep moving,” he ordered, unwilling to play with him. He moved on regardless, trusting the witch to follow him through the last bit of woods and out onto the open plains. “If you’ve got time to joke around, you’ve got time to move.”

“You’re...you’re no fun at all,” Chrollo complained, sounding a bit breathless still from his laughing. But, dutifully, Silva heard him follow behind him, his footfalls quiet and slow against the springy loam. The lamb bleated, a note of insistence in the sound, but then she quieted, no doubt soothed by a soft hand along her ears.

“What part of this situation is supposed to be _fun_ ?” Silva grunted, glancing over his shoulder at the witch walking a measurable distance behind him. “People are dying. My kingdom is under attack. You are the last living völva in this territory, and if those men who attacked us learn of your existence, you’ll be dead within the hour as well.” Silva’s anger and frustration mounted, and he began to walk faster. “None of this is _fun,_ you insufferable little-”

Silva paused mid-word when a low thump sounded behind him. He stopped, already knowing what he would find when he turned. “Are you serious,” he grated, running a hand down his face and he turned, the witch collapsed in the dirt like a sack of flour. “Get up, brat!”

But Chrollo didn’t stir. Moop bleated loudly, trapped in the bag. Somehow, Chrollo managed to fall so that he didn’t crush her, which was just like him. Always worrying about that lamb instead of himself. Silva bit his lip and closed the distance between them, kneeling down to turn Chrollo’s face towards him. “Do you have a fever?” Silva muttered incredulously. The heat rising off the boy’s skin was hot enough to burn even Silva’s fingers. The lamb bleated again, on the verge of panic, and Silva swore under his breath. The wound must have gotten infected, despite the efforts taken to avoid that the night before.

“You just keep causing me problems,” Silva muttered, grabbing the lamb’s bag before he bothered to heft the witch up and over his shoulder. He weighed nothing at all, just like before, but without his horse, Silva anticipated this journey to be far less expeditious than he would have liked it to be. He almost groaned at the thought of them being found by the marauders now. Before, Silva could have given Chrollo enough time to run. Now, he’d be hard pressed to draw his sword before being rent in two. “If I didn’t need you so much, I’d leave you in the dirt.”

Moop baa’d at his side, protesting his tone. Silva looked down at her hanging against his hip, frowning. “Why didn’t you do something, huh?” he asked, and she flicked her ears and baa’d again, wanting the attention that Silva didn’t have the hands to give. “You’re as much to blame as he is.” He walked as he spoke, ignoring his exhaustion and the growing pain in his muscles. He should have slept, he realized, instead of letting Chrollo rest undisturbed. If he had known this might happen, Silva would have made sure he was in a condition to deal with it.

Ruminating wouldn’t do any good though, he told himself. He’d made his bed, or, hadn’t, in this case, and now he had to suffer the consequences. Silva hitched Chrollo higher on his shoulder and set off, using the sun as a guide to take him around the village and back onto the path he and his men had ridden the day before. If any of them were still alive, they would be somewhere along there, searching for Silva and the others before they broke down and returned to the hall. Silva hissed out a breath through his teeth, hoping that they were close. As light as Chrollo was, Silva was in no condition to be carrying him, especially if a fight did ride up on them out of the blue.

“You’re more trouble than you’re worth,” he huffed, and Chrollo responded by hanging limply down his back, his fingertips brushing along Silva’s back with every step he took. “You and that lamb of yours.” He looked down at Moop as he said it, because she was the only one awake to hear. What would his men think to him talking to a lamb? They’d probably ask if he were bewitched. As he lugged Chrollo another few miles through the rocky plains, Silva had to wonder if he was too.

“Silva!” a loud, distant voice called, and Silva nearly dropped Chrollo as he went for his sword. He turned and caught sight of the source instantly against the flat landscape, the shining glare of armor more than visible in the bright sunlight. “Silva! Thank Odin you’re alive!” The group was small, far smaller than what it had been when they set out, but the fact that any remained at all sent a bolt of relief through Silva.

The sight of his horse among the group was a relief all its own as well. Silva met the men, lifting his free hand up in greeting. “Glad to see my horse made it through,” he said, sliding Chrollo off his shoulder and onto the ground as gently as he could. “Are you all that made it?” he asked, looking to Lars who looked haggard and far older than his meager twenty five years for the night he must have had. He seemed to be leading the band as well. What a step up from his usual watch duty. Their group looked to be missing at least fifteen men, though most of the horses seemed present.

Lars sighed, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. “All that I was able to find. I figured that those who managed to avoid the fighting would travel along the path towards the mead hall, so I’ve been leading us up and down the way, searching for any who may have survived.” He looked down then at Chrollo, his brow furrowing. “What of the witch? Is he dead?”

Silva rolled his eyes, nudging Chrollo with his boot. The lamb was still asleep it in the bag, keeping quiet for once in her young life. “Caught a stray arrow to the thigh. Infection, I think,” he said, taking in the remaining men. If the ones still missing were dead, then he had lost a good portion of his forces. “We should get moving,” Silva said after a moment’s pause.

“What about those who are still unaccounted for?”

“It’s been a night and a day,” Silva sighed, clicking his tongue to call his horse over to him. “If they haven’t made it to the path by now, then they are most likely dead. They know the way back either way. Help me with this, will you?”

Lars widened his eyes, staring down at the witch Silva gestured to. Silva mounted the horse and waved his hand impatiently. Taking Chrollo beneath the arms, Lars hefted him up, and Silva could see his surprise at how little he weighed. “Wouldn’t it be easier to throw him over the back of your horse, my liege?” he asked, guiding Chrollo up and onto the front of the saddle.

“As preferable as that might be,” Silva grunted, situating the witch until he was cradled in his lap, “I figured it would be best not to leave the witch in a worse state than he’s already in.” Chrollo’s face was mostly hidden by his messy hair, but Silva could feel the heat of his fever burning against his chest. Silva stopped looking at him, reaching instead for the bag hanging awkwardly from his side. “Put this in the saddlebag,” he ordered, reaching in to lift Moop from her sleep. “I don’t need her swinging off the horse.”

“This little thing is still here?” Lars remarked, looking up at Silva as he awkwardly took the waking lamb from him. Moop stared at the new surroundings, bleating softly when she caught sight of Silva and Chrollo atop the horse. “I figured you would have eaten this already.”

“Just put her in the saddlebag, Lars,” Silva grunted, glaring until she was safely nestled inside the spacious bag. Her head popped out of the open flap immediately, her ears flicking to and fro as she looked all around at the horses and men. “Mount up. We need to get back quickly.”

Lars scrambled to get back on his horse, either sensing the urgency or Silva’s own frustration. The others were quick to do the same as well, pulling their horses up alongside Silva’s. Moop bleated, looking up at Silva now, and he dug his heels into his horse, breaking out into a swift trot. The lamb’s cries stuttered for a moment, but he reached down a hand to her ears, calming her with a touch as they ran. Chrollo shifted a bit, jostled by the pace, but Silva tucked the witch’s head beneath his chin, holding him to his chest with his elbow to keep him from slipping out of his lap. Though fevered and wounded, Chrollo smelled like the forest they had just left, wild and tinted with something strange.

“How many did you see die?” Silva called out, tearing himself from the thoughts he didn’t need to think. Given how close to the edge of the village they had been, Silva had missed most of the combat, too caught up in fleeing with their last hope of ending the carnage. “Who saw what happened?”

Trygve answered with a loud grunt, pulling ahead of Lars to ride abreast of Silva. “I saw it as it happened, my liege,” he reported, and Silva believed it when he took a quick glance over at the stout man. His sleeve was crusted with dried blood, slit up the side. Beneath it he could see the makeshift bandage over what must have been a grisly wound. But, unlike Chrollo, Trygve seemed to have had the common sense to take care of the wound before letting it get infected. “They came through the front gates and cut through at least five of our men. Orne, Rolf, and Magnus fell first, and two others but I didn’t see who.”

Silva closed his eyes for a moment, letting the news wash over him. They were all good men. Strong, noble, and Rolf had even been married. He had had children. Sighing, he opened his eyes, looking over to Trygve. “Snorre’s men, were they not?” he asked, looking for confirmation of his suspicions.

There was a pause, filled only by the trampling of hooves and the soft, rhythmic puffs of Chrollo’s breath against his neck. “They were,” he said, looking at Silva with heavy eyes. “They rode in as if they knew what they were doing, with a job in mind. They were shocked to find us there. Their cursing was loud, and though they took us by surprise, they hadn’t expected to encounter resistance.”

If nothing else, Silva could comfort himself with the truth that his men had fought hard and done as much to Snorre’s forces as they had done to his. And, though the attack took them by surprise and laid waste to the lives of good men, Silva now knew how the plague had spread so rapidly and why. First came the raiders, who performed some hated magic in the center of the village under the guise of looting. Then came the sickness. Once the village had been weakened, by both death and desertion, the raiders returned to slaughter all those who remained.

Silva gritted his teeth. How many of his people had met this very same end? How many families were butchered, or poisoned, or watched as those they loved were taken from them by a force they could never hope to combat? Chrollo’s soft hair brushed his neck and Silva looked down at the boy’s lax face, wondering if this small, acerbic brat could really put a stop to an onslaught that had even Silva helpless.

“You best get better,” Silva whispered to him, knowing they were going too fast for the others to hear. “You have a mountain of work ahead of you yet.”

His eyes widened a moment later, though, when instead of silence, he received a pained moan.

“Brat?” he muttered, trying to nudge Chrollo’s head onto his shoulder so he could see his face. “Chrollo?”

Silva knew something was wrong almost instantly. Chrollo’s breathing had changed, no longer soft and measured. It came quick, labored, chilling the skin of Silav's neck in small bursts. It nsettled him enough that he lost his train of thought before he could call out to Chrollo again. Where the witch's cheeks had before been reddened, they were now pale, his forehead beaded with sweat as his eyes danced beneath the glossy cover of his lids.

“My liege?” Lars asked, and Silva looked up, eyes wide.

“We need to move, now,” he gritted, taking the reins in hand to spur his horse forward. “Now! Double time!”

They all rushed to follow else risk falling behind in Silva’s mad dash forward. The horses broke into a gallop, one that sent dust flying into the air behind them. _Move, move, move!_ His mind screamed louder and louder, even as Chrollo began to breath much, much shallower. How far were they still from the hall? It was hard to think with the panic ringing between his ears. It was just an infection, wasn’t it? Why was it getting so much worse?

A horrible, horrible thought took root in his mind. Had he gotten Chrollo infected with the plague? Had carting him to these infected villages ruined whatever luck the witch had had in avoiding sickness? Silva dug his heels into his horse’s sides, riding even faster. He could hear his men call out to him to slow down, to think about the state of his horse, but Silva couldn’t. Not when the only chance at fixing things lay half dead in his arms.

They traveled fast, but the distance disappeared too slowly. Every league that vanished beneath his steed’s feet felt not good enough. Not fast enough. Chrollo mumbled in his fevered sleep, shifting and clutching the fabric of Silva’s shirt. Silva wrapped an arm around his small waist and leaned low, letting his horse cut through the air like an arrow shot from a bow. If his men kept pace, he didn’t care. If they fell behind, he didn’t check. They knew the way and they knew what was at stake. Silva held Chrollo close, praying that what lay over the next hill would be the sight of his mead hall against the sky.

It felt like hours passed before he caught sight of the familiar shape of his home. It rose slowly along the horizon, half hidden by hills and trees and distance, but it arose all the same, granting Silva some measure of relief that the journey was almost over. Chrollo was a limb weight against his chest, but he hadn’t worsened as far as he could tell. The lamb had quieted too, huddled up in the saddlebag to lessen the jostling of the horse’s gait. Silva called out to his horse, giving one last burst of speed that ran them through the gates. He dismounted messily, but it didn’t matter. Chrollo was safe in his arms, and he dug in the saddlebag for the lamb, knowing there would be hell to pay if he left Moop for even an instant while the witch was out. His men streamed in and Moop bleated at them in greeting, looking a bit shaken from the quick ride but no worse for wear. Silva sat her on Chrollo’s lap and lifted them both into his arms, making for the entrance of the hall in a brisk jog.

“Lars, see to my horse,” he called out over his shoulder, kicking open the door with no patience left for decorum. Time time for that had long passed, if it had ever existed to begin with.

“My liege!” one of the servants cried, startled from her cleaning near the door. “We were so worried-”

“Call Hildegard!” Silva barked as he charged past her, not bothering to check that his order was heeded. The fever had risen even higher. Moop seemed disconcerted by the overwhelming heat assaulting Chrollo’s small body. She nuzzled at the witch’s face, bleating needfully. Silva gritted his teeth and cut through the hall, heading straight for his own rooms. There was no time to waste.

The situation wouldn’t allow for it, and neither would Silva.


	6. Chapter 6

The moment the doctor pulled away from Chrollo’s unconscious form, Silva was on his feet and at his side, eager for answers and unwilling to wait a moment longer for them. “Well then?” he asked, the harsh edge to his voice softened only by the lamb held in his arms. “How is he?”

The doctor, an old woman who had served his family for decades, sighed, too used to him to be intimidated. She closed up her bag of herbs and medicines, taking hold of Silva’s forearm to lift herself slowly from her seat. “About as well as can be expected, given the state he was in before the infection spread,” she groused, glaring up at Silva the way a mother would a disobedient son. “This boy is malnourished. Exhausted.”

Silva swallowed back the kneejerk reaction to argue. He knew it wouldn’t get him anywhere with Hildegard. “Will he live?” he asked, letting the lamb down on the bed before she fell out of his arms from her squirming. 

Hildegard rolled her thin shoulders, looking down on Chrollo with narrowed eyes. There was no way she didn’t know what he was, but for the life of him, Silva couldn’t tell if she cared one way or the other. “He will live,” she said after a moment’s pause. “But you need to let him rest more. Feed him. A human cannot survive being treated so poorly. That wound is just a portion of what ails him.”

Her gaze was too strong, even for a man like him. Silva nodded and looked instead to the bed, taking in how small Chrollo looked wrapped in the thick furs that covered Silva’s own bed. Moop wobbled and stumbled over the unsteady surface, hopping here and there in her efforts to reach Chrollo. “Thank you for your care,” Silva said, dismissing her. “Your words will not go unheeded.”

“See that they don’t,” she huffed, walking slowly to the door, her every hobbled step marked by a tap as her cane hit the stone floor. Silva watched her leave, letting out a breath once the door closed behind her. Though he’d known her since he was born, her presence never got easier to process. She knew too much, seeing too far into the hearts and minds of men. Falling into the chair she’d abandoned, Silva stared morosely at the unconscious witch and the meandering lamb. 

“Don’t do that,” he called when Moop nudged at Chrollo’s cheek with her head, trying to wake him up. She looked up for a moment at him, blinking her long lashes before turning back to nudge at the boy again. Silva groaned and stood up once more, snatching her up and depositing her into his lap. “You’re a handful,” he huffed. “The both of you.”

Instead of replying, she flicked her ears, staring up at him with her tongue out like a dog. Silva sighed, giving in to her silent plea. He ran his hand down her fleece, scratching her ears. “You’re becoming more and more like a dog every day,” he murmured, gently pinching her bent ear and tugging. “You should give some of that energy to your mother over there. He could use it.”

Moop just baa’d and planted her forelegs on Silva’s stomach, looking him up and down as if she were planning the best way to scale the mountain he made. Silva rolled his eyes and kept up a steady stream of attention, distracting her from Chrollo as he got the rest he sorely needed. It was only a minor infection. He’d be back on his feet soon, of that Silva was sure. Just as soon as he slept and recovered some of the energy he’d lost over the sleepless nights and long days. 

The only problem was that Silva hardly knew how long that would take. At least, he thought wryly, he wasn’t waiting alone. Moop gave up her attempt to climb him and instead walked carefully out onto his knee, staring out at the room from the high vantage point. She looked longingly at Chrollo but didn’t try to jump off. She slowly lowered herself onto her knees, laying down with her head turned towards Chrollo, watching for any sign of movement as Silva stroked down her back. 

“He’ll be okay,” Silva found himself saying. He knew how much Chrollo talked to her, so perhaps it would settle her nerves. “He’s a lot stronger than we give him credit for. Walking on that wound,” Silva scoffed, and Moop looked up at him, flicking her ears. “He’s as foolhardy as any of my men and far tougher besides.” 

“Don’t compare me to those idiots,” came a weak voice, and Silva startled enough to nearly send Moop flying. She scrambled to her feet and tried to jump for the bed, but Silva snatched her up before she could succeed. He glared at the witch, wondering how much of that he had heard. 

“Good to see you’re well enough to complain,” Silva huffed, dragging the chair closer. “Your lamb is an utter menace, by the way.”

“I’m sure she was more than you could handle,” Chrollo mumbled, blinking blearily at them both. He perked up a little when Silva deposited the lamb onto the bed, pulling out a hand from beneath the furs to reach for her small head. “I’m fine, baby,” he whispered, resting his forehead against hers. “I’m sorry for scaring you.”

The moment was almost too intimate to watch. Silva cleared his throat and crossed his arms. “How are you feeling?” he asked, his tone softening as Chrollo carefully eased himself into a sitting position, Moop tumbling headfirst into his lap the moment she could do so. “I thought those herbs of yours prevented infection.”

Chrollo shrugged his thin shoulder, the collar of his cloak loose and falling off him. Silva had had him stripped of everything but it, knowing how frantic he grew when separated from it. “They were more for pain than infection,” he said tiredly, only just catching sight of the food on the bedside table at his elbow. He glanced up at Silva and Silva nodded. Chrollo reached for the bread and meat, eating far more sedately than he would have expected given Hildegard’s claims of malnourishment. “Did you feed Moop?” he asked through a mouthful of bread. 

“I had her taken care of.”

Chrollo nodded, scratching under the lamb’s chin as she happily smiled up at him, letting out a few bleats to catch him up herself on all that he had missed. The witch smiled sweetly at her, nodding his head as he ate. Silva turned to watch the fire instead, letting him eat in peace. He deserved at least that much before the mood faded back to the kingdom under fire and the plague that was spreading all the quicker. 

“You’re being awfully quiet over there,” Chrollo said eventually, wiping off his mouth and setting the empty plate to the side. “Are you only talkative when you think me unconscious, or is Moop just that good of a conversationalist?”

“I figured you’d enjoy the reprieve,” he said, too tired for their usual sniping. 

“Did something happen?” Chrollo prodded, seeing through him easily. 

Silva rubbed at his eyes, resting his head on his propped up hand as he stared evenly back at the witch in his bed. “I received reports on another six villages,” he said quietly. “The plague is spreading even faster now, and even if it doesn’t kill them all, raiders come in the night to finish the job. Snorre has stopped his passive assault. What we experienced was what the rest are undergoing. If something isn’t done, every village will be erased, and Snorre will come for my head, and then take my land.”

Whatever good humor Chrollo had woken with, it disappeared in the wake of his words. His face paled and his hands stilled in Moop’s fleece. “Okay,” he murmured, wincing as he began to shift to the edge of the bed. “Where are my clothes?”

“Sit still,” Silva ordered, and for once, Chrollo complied, his body freezing in place. “We aren’t going anywhere.”

“I can’t just...lay here,” Chrollo sighed, gathering Moop to his chest to bury his face in her neck. “Things have gotten too serious to waste any time.”

“Well, what do you think you can do in the state you’re in now?” Silva pressed, arms crossed and posture poor enough to make his late mother turn in her grave. He’d been at this bedside too long to have preserved any manner of patience. “You can’t leave that bed. Or,” he amended, “you won’t be leaving that bed until I deem you capable of walking without threat of fainting.”

Chrollo looked up at him with eyes as dark as night, his cheeks flushed from fever and frustration. “There are things that still need to be done,” he murmured, shifting his attention back to Moop when she began to suckle at his fingers. “I need to set up for the ritual; I need to gather materials,” he listed, letting out a huff of breath. “Physical things,” he whispered, his ears reddening too, “have to be...settled.” The room fell silent. Both men watched Moop nibble and plop down tiredly, resting her head on Chrollo’s knee as her eyes fluttered shut. 

Silva, however, was alive with energy. There it was again. That boiling, churning frustration located just beneath his skin that always seemed to bubble up when Chrollo was like this. Silva tightened his hands into fists, leaning forward in his chair. “What do you mean by  _ ‘physical things’ _ ?” he demanded, recalling how Chrollo had spoken of that before too, that night in the woods. He’d looked so flustered, as frightened as a deer before the jaws of a predator. 

“I think you know what I mean,” the witch whispered, refusing to look anywhere but at the lamb sleeping in the hollow of his crossed, blanketed legs. Sick and weak as he was, his eyes were clear. He held no ounce of shame for what he was asking Silva to do, and Silva wasn’t sure if he should be proud of the witch’s courage or horrified that he’d even suggest such a thing to a Jarl. 

A wave of heat washed down his shoulders, giving Silva his answer. His fists tightened again. His mouth went dry. He became hyper-aware of the witch’s slender, naked shoulders, of the graceful hands that stroked the sleeping lamb’s fleece. “What all would be expected of me,” Silva breathed, not wording it like a question when it was just an inevitability at this point. 

Chrollo turned to look at him, his eyes so dark as his teeth worried his lip. “I don’t know,” he said quietly, so small in the Jarl’s bed. “I’ve never had to resort to this before. I’ve never needed so much power.” He looked so young like this, uncertain and lost and nothing at all like what he should be. Like what he was.

The choice was made clear. Either Silva could do what had to be done, or he could let his people die. 

Just like before, he knew it wasn’t a choice. Just inevitability. 

Without a word, Silva stood up from his chair and scooped up the lamb before Chrollo could react. Moop awoke, but once she saw who had her, she relaxed easily enough, even with Chrollo scrambling to take her back. “What are you doing with her?” he demanded, voice hard and threatening, even though he was anything but. “Give her back.”

“Sit still and shut up,” Silva sighed, his hand burning a bit when he took Chrollo by the shoulder and forced him back onto the bed. The witch crumpled easily. Chrollo was too weak to come after him, so he turned and left the room, ignoring the angry shouts that followed as he took the lamb to the kennels nearby. The dogs, for whatever reason, would keep her safe enough. 

The little lamb bleated softly in his arms as he walked, almost as if asking where they were going. Silva glanced around in either direction, but the halls were clear of servants or thanes. “Shh,” he went, letting the small creature flick her ears at his long hair. “Don’t you want to play with the dogs?”

She baa’d again and smiled happily up at him, her small ears twitching as she took in the sounds around her. Silva scratched at her ears and shouldered open the door to the kennels, plopping the lamb down so she could run excitedly towards Mike and Modi. Without watching them meet, Silva closed the door and headed back to the room, walking faster than he’d like to admit. 

“I’m back,” he said as he opened up the door to his room, only to find Chrollo half out of bed and breathing hard, his cloak wrapped around his shoulders by white knuckled hands. Silva closed the door and crossed the room in a three steps, grabbing the witch by the upper arms to steady him before he keeled over. “Did you try to follow me?” he scoffed, trying and failing to guide Chrollo back into the bed.

“Where the fuck did you take her?” he demanded, acid dripping from his words. Fevered though he was, Chrollo’s glare was as strong as ever, errant magic heating the air around them. Had he ever cursed like that before? It made Silva laugh to think that this was what gave Chrollo the heart of a man. 

“To the kennels, you brat,” he chuckled, too humored to be annoyed. “Unless you’d enjoy being fucked in front of your little lamb?”

That seemed to shut him up. Chrollo’s face grew pale, his hands trembling a little where they were clasped around the seam of his cloak. He looked at the fire, his teeth threatening to bite clean through his lower lip. “So you’re agreeing to this?” he asked softly, refusing to meet Silva’s eyes. “You’ve heard of how this works with the other völva, right? I have to-”

“You have to enjoy it,” Silva cut in, grinding his teeth a little. Everyone knew of the stories. At night, when men were brazen and cared little for the threat of angering the gods, they would jest of the völvas’ practices, and long to be apart of them like this. Even with Chrollo’s cloak bound around his pale shoulders, the dark blue only highlighted the swan’s length of his neck. Was this a spell too, or was it simply Chrollo’s own allure? 

For all the sensuality he seemed to exude, the witch still looked as nervous as a foal. His eyes went wide when Silva took the initiative, guiding him back onto the bed with a hand on his narrow shoulder.  “Do you even know what you’re doing?” Chrollo asked softly, his bare legs folded demurely at his side. He tugged quickly at the hem of his cloak when he caught Silva staring, trying to cover up when the situation called for the exact opposite. 

Silva didn’t let him hide. He lifted a knee onto the mattress, his hand falling on Chrollo’s warm thigh. A bandage marked where he had been wounded, but it did little to hide his skin from Silva’s touch. Chrollo shrank back, his cloak slipping from around his shoulders the barest tease of an inch. “How hard could it be?” he joked. “You’re already so close to being a woman, so it shouldn’t be that different.”

Chrollo’s lips curled in disgust. He turned his head away. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake his leg free from Silva’s grasp. “Please don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he pleaded, and Silva almost felt guilty at the pained expression the boy wore. 

Crawling up the rest of the way, Silva knelt before the little witch, inching his hand higher along his smooth thigh. With his other hand, he seized Chrollo’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, bringing his attention back whether he wanted to or not. “You really are pretty,” Silva sighed, turning his face this way and that, taking in the witch’s sharp cheekbones and dark eyes, his messy hair and his bitten lips. His men, hamfisted as they were, weren’t wrong to lust after the boy. At least, not when he made it so easy. 

“Stop thinking,” Chrollo said softly, for once looking Silva in the eye. 

“Excuse me?” 

“Stop thinking about whatever it is you’re thinking about,” the boy murmured. “Stop being crude when you think about me.”

Crude? Silva had to smile at that. He let go of Chrollo’s chin to guide his hand down the witch’s neck, tipping him backwards until his back met the furs blanketing the bed. Slender hands were clenching the fabric of the cloak hard enough to turn white. “It’s going to be hard to do much of anything if you don’t take this off,” Silva said sagely, tugging a bit at the thick blue folds. 

Chrollo looked as if Silva had suggested he might flay him alive. His breath quickening, he looked anywhere but at Silva. “You’re not undressing,” Chrollo said in a way that Silva thought might be trying to sound pointed. “Why should I have to?”

For someone who threw such a fit when Silva tried to rip it, Chrollo seemed perfectly content to make a mess of that cloak of his. Rolling his eyes, Silva instead backed up a few inches, allowing himself space enough to pull off his shirt. “There,” he said, tossing it off onto the floor. “Now take it off.”

It would be a lie to say he hated the assessing, wide-eyed look the witch gave him, taking in his chest and arms with flushed cheeks. Silva had honed his body with decades of fighting, and though his skin was scarred, the muscle beneath stood as a testament to his skill and strength. Leaning closer, Silva took the witch by the wrist, bringing his small hand to rest on his naked chest. His hand was cold, but it warmed quickly against Silva’s skin. 

“Take it off,” he said again, softer this time. Intimately. Chrollo didn’t seem to know where to look, not with Silva bearing down on him. His hand traveled slowly down Silva’s chest, resting right over his heart, and when Silva tugged at the cloak again, this time, Chrollo didn’t try to fight him. 

The cloak fell to the floor with a whisper and Chrollo watched it fall like his last line of defense. Silva took in what had been hidden from him, drinking in the sight of pale skin, soft curves, and the unmistakable mark of a man on a body that seemed to embrace the feminine just as readily. “Just like a woman here, aren’t you?” Silva observed, cupping Chrollo’s chest. “Not very big though,” he complained, squeezing the flesh gently before he rolled his thumb over a peaking nipple. The witch barely filled his palm, his muscle only adding a bit of definition to his chest. He was hardly as flat as a board though, which gave Silva something to work with at least. 

“You’re horrible,” Chrollo whined, but he couldn’t hide how his cheeks reddened. A low, needy noise built in the back of his throat, held back by clenched teeth and shattering will. Silva raised a brow and lowered his head, taking the other nub into his mouth. He sucked harshly and the dam seemed to break, Chrollo’s voice filling the room like sunlight entering a window, warm and soft. 

“Am I now?” Silva asked quietly, letting his breath tease where his mouth had just been. Small as he was, he still responded as loudly as a woman would in a similar position. “You don’t seem to hate it,” he chuckled, grinding his thigh between the witch’s legs, coaxing him to rut and grind himself to hardness. 

Instead of answering, Chrollo bit down on his hand, smothering his sounds the best he could with his cloak gone. He shook and rattled, Silva’s every touch exciting more tremors from his small frame. “What’s the matter?” Silva asked, his voice low and husky against the witch’s soft skin. “Why are you shaking so much? You’ve never been afraid of me before, so why are you getting scared now?” Chrollo’s breath was ragged already, his hands hiding his face from sight. “Come on; someone like you should be used to this.”

Chrollo mumbled something, his body trembling harder. Silva leaned closer, not quite making out the words. As much as he hated it, a feeling akin to worry began to ruin the mood. “What was that?” Silva asked, letting go of Chrollo’s legs to tug at his hands instead. “Didn’t quite hear you.”

“I’m not used to it,” Chrollo mumbled again, but Silva was close enough to hear this time. “Because I’ve never done this before.” 

The words didn’t immediately register. Silva’s thoughts stuttered to a halt, his mouth opening in a gape. “What?” he asked, and it came out harsher than he anticipated. Chrollo flinched and curled in on himself even more, jerking harshly on the nearest pillow to force it over his face. With an exasperated sigh, Silva tugged at the cover. “I’m not mad, you brat. Why didn’t you say that before?”

“Would you have believed me?” 

Even though it was muffled, Silva still heard the pointed barb in his voice. He closed his hands around Chrollo’s tiny wrists, forcing him to show his face. Though his cheeks were red, Chrollo’s expression was at least trying to look impassive. “I might have,” Silva murmured, barely able to think. The witch’s hair was fanned out against the furs and pillows, dark and messy, his lips shiny and wet. “It’s hard to believe.”

Chrollo frowned, turning his cheek into the soft fur. “Why? Because I’m just a whore in your eyes? That because of what I do, I just bend over for anyone who will take me?” His words were vitriolic but his eyes were sad. “All I’ve ever done is live my life the best I can. I’ve never been close to anyone. I never thought I’d have to be.”

Silva swallowed back the guilt from before because it changed nothing. He couldn’t let it. He gripped Chrollo’s wrists tighter, pinning them to the bed on either side of his small, young face. He saw fear in the boy’s eyes. Fear and acceptance. Disquiet bloomed in his stomach. 

“Turn over,” he ordered, loosening his grip. “On your stomach.”

He almost thought Chrollo wouldn’t comply. The witch’s face went pale and he closed his eyes, breathing in deeply through his nose. Within a minute or two he seemed to summon up the mettle to roll himself onto his front. Silva straddled his legs. Chrollo folded his arms and hid his face within them. For all intents and purposes, he looked ready to accept what fate had dealt him. 

The moment Silva rested his hands on Chrollo’s bare skin, Chrollo jumped as if he’d been burned. He clenched the fur beneath him furiously, wound tighter than a spring. A pronounced tremor could be seen in the line of his shoulders, along his spine. Silva shook his head and sighed, trying to remember if the last virgin to grace his bed had acted so skittish. He stroked down the boy’s spine, smiling when Chrollo slowly began to relax. 

“That’s better,” Silva sighed, resting more of his weight on Chrollo’s thighs. He brought both hands to narrow shoulders, acquainting himself with Chrollo’s body slowly. “Don’t be so nervous.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” came Chrollo’s muffled voice. It was breathy now, his death grip loosening on the blankets. Silva moved lower, his fingers dancing along the witch’s ribs. “Have you ever done this before? Will it...hurt?”

Was it worth it to lie to the boy? Somehow Silva knew that if he tried, Chrollo would sense it. “Not with a man,” he said. “And probably.” He knew the basic logistics, as did most who heard stories of the types of men who degraded themselves by willingly bending over for another. They would need oil, Chrollo would need preparation, but ultimately, this would not be a comfortable experience for the witch. 

Instead of trembling more, Chrollo simply hid his face in the pillows. The tips of his ears were bright red and his knuckles were white where they were clenched in the furs. “Wonderful,” he said into the pillow, but even though he seemed miserable, Silva couldn’t help but notice how he arched into his hands, enjoying the gentle petting if nothing else. 

Silva knew that above all, if they were going to do this without tearing Chrollo in half, he would have to make the witch relax. From the looks of things, it would take a bit more effort than he usually expended during these sorts of engagements. Did he still have that fancy oil from the south? He got off Chrollo to dig beneath the bed, snagging the ornate bottle from beneath. It held half the amount it had originally, but he figured it would be enough. 

When he moved to get back into position, he caught Chrollo peeking at him from the pillow, his dark eyes as scared as a cornered rabbit. “It’s just to make it hurt less,” he explained, hoping that might soften the anxiety still tensing the boy’s shoulders. “This only works if you like it, right? Give me some credit. I won’t hurt you if I can help it.”

“How comforting,” he mumbled.

“Stop whining,” Silva grunted, grabbing him by the hip to force him onto his hands and knees. For as scrawny as the witch was, his ass wasn’t anything to sneer at. It was round and full, and from behind, Chrollo really could have been a woman, so long as he ignored what hung between his legs. “Spread your thighs,” he ordered, forcing himself to concentrate. 

Chrollo whined again but listened. Or, he listened enough to spread his legs all of an inch. Silva helped him the rest of the way, grabbing him by the thighs and yanking them apart, baring him completely. 

“Silva!” Chrollo yelped, looking over his shoulder with a watery glare. “Please.”

“Quiet,” Silva said, hushing him as he uncorked the bottle, pouring a measure onto his fingers. “I should make you do this yourself.” How much did he even need to do? He brought a finger to Chrollo’s entrance, wasting no time taking it slow. Pressing inside, Silva felt for himself how tight the boy was, his body growing all the tighter as he gave another ragged cry at being penetrated. 

“Si-Silva,” Chrollo gasped, his arms giving out as he fell forward, head pillowed on his white-knuckled hands. “You brute.”

If he listened closely, he could hear the tears about to fall. With a sigh, Silva stroked along the boy’s back, working his finger in and out slowly. He was so hot inside. And tight. “Try to relax,” he said gently, moving his hand back to Chrollo’s chest. Was the overwhelming heat from the fever or was it just another sign of this body being built for this sort of treatment? “This won’t work if you don’t.”

He didn’t try for a second finger until Chrollo listened to him, his fingers giving up their death grip on the sheets after a few minutes of tense silence. Silva kept up a constant stream of caresses and light touches, seeking out every spot that made the witch gasp or moan. The second finger went in easier than the first in that regard, slowly enough to give Chrollo enough warning to brace himself as Silva marked his shoulders and neck with biting kisses. It was when he scissored his fingers that Chrollo let out the first real keen, his voice breaking halfway through as he tried to stifle himself.

“O-Oh,” he went, his eyes staring off to the side unseeing. Chrollo’s lips parted in a moan, the surprise thick on his face. “There, Silva, there, do that again.” He bucked his hips a little, seeking out Silva’s fingers for more.

There was no way to deny him anything when he looked like that. Silva prodded and stroked, his smile turning hungry when Chrollo let out another needy noise when he crooked his fingers and rubbed against a spot that sent him panting. “Are you ready?” Silva asked, painfully hard himself from watching and feeling Chrollo clamp around his fingers, greedily taking him in. “Chrollo?”

“Another,” he said, surprising himself as well as Silva. His cheeks colored red and when he looked over his shoulder at Silva, he looked nearly drunk. “Do another first. Please.”

There was no way he could say no to that. Silva poured some more oil and slipped in a third finger, a shiver of pure lust tearing through him at the litany of sounds Chrollo gave when he began to move them all. Now that he knew where to aim, Chrollo’s anxieties seemed to melt away. Sweat dotted Silva’s brow, his long hair sticking to his bare shoulders. What would he feel like, Silva wondered. Would he feel as hot as he felt around his fingers? If he made noises half as sensual while being fucked as he did now, Silva couldn’t imagine this lasting long. 

Crooking his fingers again, Silva listened to Chrollo cry out his name. He needed inside him. He needed it now. 

“Chrollo,” he said, his voice more growl than words. He let go of where he’d been fondling to coat his straining cock with the oil, hissing at the touch of his own hand. “Chrollo, it’s time.”

He couldn’t tell if Chrollo were too strung out to reply, or if he didn’t hear him over the sound of his own needy noises. In either case, Silva retracted his fingers, leaving that beautiful warmth for something better. Chrollo lifted his ass higher, searching for what he’d just lost, all shame gone in the face of his own pleasure. Silva lined himself up, giving himself one moment, just one, to rub his cock against the boy’s entrance, burning the noise the witch made into his mind. 

It only took one move to seat himself inside of Chrollo. As tight as he was, as nervous as he was, Chrollo accepted him beautifully, his body reduced to a shaking mess while Silva struggled to ground himself. “You’re so  _ tight _ ,” he grunted, and Chrollo gave a ragged sob, his face buried in the bedding. Silva was holding his hips tight enough to bruise, but he couldn’t help it. “Talk to me, brat. Are you alright?”

“It’s…” he gasped, and Silva could practically hear the tears as they fell down his cheeks. “S-Silva, I’m-” He paused, letting out a choked whine. “Gods, why are you so big?”

Silva hushed him, stroking down his flank with his hand. Sweat matted his hair and he bent over Chrollo, boxing him in beneath his body. How was he so small? If Silva didn’t hold onto him, he’d just melt away, disappearing forever. Chrollo shifted restlessly, every movement of his body sending waves of heat through Silva. He began to sweat, his control already beginning to slip.

“...Silva?” 

He couldn’t help it. He moved. Silva held tightly to Chrollo’s hips and pulled out a few inches, thrusting back in with a guttural moan. Chrollo cried out loudly, keening so beautifully that it made Silva’s head spin. It was hard to think of anything but the tight, wet heat clamping around him, to do anything besides fuck into him as hard and as fast as he could. Silva lifted Chrollo higher by the hips, holding him up as his front fell into the bed. 

“Silva!” Chrollo choked, his small hands grasping weakly at the bedding. “Slower, please, I can’t-”

Silva growled, plastering himself along the long line of Chrollo’s back. Like this he completely dwarfed the boy, hiding him from sight beneath his bulk. He slowed his frantic thrusting, instead savoring the drag of his cock slipping in and out with an achingly slow rhythm that made Chrollo shake all the harder. “How do you feel?” he asked, his voice a husky rasp. His senses filled with the witch’s scent, some odd combination of wind and herbs that clung to his hair and skin like dew to the morning light. Silva breathed it in, letting it settle in his lungs like heavy smoke. “Do you feel good?”

“I’m...I’m so full,” Chrollo gasped, grabbing blindly for one of Silva’s hands. It took some prying, but he managed to pull one from his hip, dragging it beneath him to coax Silva into touching him. “Please, just go slow.” The witch was hard in his hand, his cock growing all the harder the more Silva rocked. 

He could go slow, he told himself, biting the inside of his cheek in effort to control himself. Chrollo kept letting out little noises, small, wet gasps as he moved, and Silva’s arms shook as he fought to keep himself in line. It was too easy to rut into him like this, with his ass up and presented to him like an offering.  “Hold on,” Silva grunted, pulling out and rolling Chrollo onto his back, lifting his legs up and hooking them over his shoulders. Was this really any better, he wondered as he thrust back inside, his eyes filled with the unabashed sight of the witch’s lust-drunk face. His cheeks were pink and his lips shiny and red, his eyes half-mast as he clung to the pillow above his head. Gods, but he was beautiful, the black of his hair and the white of his skin blurring against the soft, dark fur he laid upon. Silva rolled his hips in time to Chrollo’s labored breaths, chasing the air in a single-minded desire to see the boy breathless always.  

Like this, he could also see every single expression as it passed over the witch’s face. His eyes opened, his lips parting to gasp in time to Silva’s thrusts. He tangled his fingers in Silva’s hair, tugging on his braids as if they were reins. Did he want him to go faster? 

“You look like you want to say something,” Silva grunted, his voice a mere rasp as he dipped lower, mouthing the tempting stretch of skin along Chrollo’s slender throat. He looked so good like this, far better than he did when spurning Silva or showing off that viper’s tongue. 

“I...I just...Can you…kiss me?” 

Silva nearly stopped. Chrollo was so open beneath him, his eyes wide, his cheeks flushed, his hair a mess and his expression so young that Silva didn’t know what to do. 

Biting his lip, Chrollo let go of his braids and tried to hide again behind his hands. “Is that weird?” he whispered. 

Would kissing the witch make this real? Silva rarely kissed the women he took into his bed. Chrollo seemed to shrink more and more the longer he took to respond, his blush moving down his slender shoulders until his skin was a lovely pink. Licking his lips, Silva cleared his throat. “Why?” he asked lowly, rolling them carefully so that Chrollo was straddling his waist. The view of him backlit by the fire was too good to refuse, even if the boy did want to hide.

The change in position stopped all conversation for a few minutes, Chrollo shuddering as he bounced on Silva’s powerful thighs. “Just...I just want to,” the witch moaned, closing his eyes when Silva kissed and bit marks into his chest, treating his chest the way he would any of his usual lovers. Slender hands tangled themselves in Silva’s long hair, tugging gently until Silva broke away, looking Chrollo in the eye. 

“Please?” Chrollo whispered, his lips an inch from Silva’s. “Please, Silva.”

Hearing his name said like that, so wantingly and soft, solidified the notion that Silva had been bewitched by the whims of this infuriatingly beautiful creature. How was he supposed to resist? Silva brought his hand to Chrollo’s hair, his head fitting so well in his palm. It was so simple to guide him forward, to press his lips to the impossibly warm mouth, coaxing it to move and open for his tongue to slip inside. Chrollo moaned softly, rocking himself up and down as they kissed. Was it the witch’s first kiss? The thought alone was nearly too much to handle. 

With him so sweet, there was no way for Silva to last much longer. He drew his hands down Chrollo’s lithe body, cupping his ass to lift and drop him faster, harder, never breaking the kiss as he rammed into him, Chrollo’s cock trapped between their stomachs. An indescribable thrum seemed to course through them both, their lips tingling like the air before a lightning strike. Silva closed his eyes, wrapping a hand around Chrollo to send him over before Silva fell over himself. 

He was a fool to think he’d get his way so easily. It was Chrollo’s voice that tore Silva’s orgasm from him, that breathy, ruined little cry of his name too sweet to refuse. He came hard with his groan muffled by the witch’s lax lips. Chrollo crumpled against his chest, utterly exhausted, and Silva fucked himself through his release for just a moment longer before following suit. Silva fell back onto the bed, his chest heaving for the breath he couldn’t catch. 

He had just enough foresight left to pull out and topple Chrollo off his chest, laying the boy out on the bed to recover. What was that Silva had felt? Was that magic in the air? Chrollo had said this was done to make him stronger, but he hadn’t expected to physically feel it happening. He threw an arm over his eyes and savored the rush, wondering if he’d be able to convince Chrollo to do this again with him. For someone so abrasive and skittish, the little witch certainly had a taste that Silva could imagine all too well becoming addicted to. 

“I can’t feel my hips,” came a muffled little complaint, and Silva moved his arm enough to uncover an eye. Chrollo lay flat on his stomach, the color still sitting high on his cheeks. From the fever or the fucking, Silva couldn’t tell. “I’m going to have bruises. Why were you so rough? Did you forget that was my first time?”

Rolling his eyes, Silva let out a sigh. He couldn’t even enjoy the afterglow without it being ruined by the brat’s whining. The worst part, he realized, was that Chrollo wasn’t even close to done.

“Why did you have to do it inside me?” he asked next, turning his flushed face towards Silva, yanking at his arm until the Jarl deigned to give him his full attention. 

“I don’t recall you protesting much in the moment,” Silva grumbled, jerking back his arm. “I remember you begging though. A lot.” Chrollo’s face really was cute when he was angry. His nose wrinkled and his small mouth curled into a frown that looked too serious on his youthful face. How old was he anyway? Silva probably should have asked at some point, all things considered. “How old are you, brat?” he asked, folding his arms behind his head. “Twenty?”

That seemed to throw the little witch for a loop. His angry face shifted to one of surprise, and then wariness. “Why do you want to know?” he demanded, wincing a little as he carefully dragged himself beneath the topmost fur, hiding his body from Silva’s appreciative gaze. “You didn’t seem to care before to know anything about me.”

Well, that wasn’t true at all. “If you recall, I asked for your name several times,” Silva drawled, rolling onto his side to stare at the beautiful witch curled up in his bed. “You’re the withholding one, not me.”

“You’re not the most accommodating person either,” Chrollo mumbled. 

Silva raised a brow. “I fucked you when you asked me to,” he said bluntly, his lips curling into a smile when Chrollo turned as red as a strawberry. “How much more accommodating do I need to be to know your age?” 

Chrollo’s mouth opened, closed, and then opened again, but no words came out. His dark eyes were wide and he managed a small little huff before resolutely burying his face in the pillows. Silva clucked his tongue, reaching out for the boy’s narrow shoulder. “Oh, come on, don’t hide from me again,” he complained, brushing soft hair out of the way to reveal a single glaring eye. “Just tell me. Not everything has an ulterior motive, you suspicious little brat.”

Despite his compelling argument, Chrollo still took his sweet time to answer. Silva rolled his eyes and stroked through his shaggy hair, remarking on the softness of it. Everything about Chrollo was soft from his hair to his skin to his eyes when he looked at that lamb of his. There was no ounce of steel in him. Or at least, none until he found himself threatened. 

“I’m nineteen,” Chrollo said softly, breaking Silva from his thoughts. It was so quiet he almost missed it entirely. “Almost twenty, once the summer comes. How old are you?”

Silva hummed, feeling indescribably old. “Thirty-six,” he said, noting how Chrollo didn’t seem to react to the revelation. “It’s a little hard to imagine a young thing like you ending a plague.”

Chrollo shrugged, folding a hand under his cheek to rest his head upon. He looked somewhere along Silva’s shoulder, avoiding his eye. “I’ve never done something like that before,” he whispered, looking his age. “I don’t think even my mother tried to do something so…” He trailed off, looking far more melancholy than he should, given the post-coital haze still lingering in the room.

“What?” Silva pressed, curious. “Foolhardy? Difficult?”

“Dangerous,” Chrollo said, his dark eyes flicking up to meet Silva’s for just a moment. “Physical requirements aside, this is old magic. Malevolent. So much hatred has to go into a curse this size. Me trying to reverse it...I’ll be trying to…” He trailed off again, tucking his arms close to himself, as if he were cold. 

Silva reached out his hand, running it along his soft skin. “What’s wrong?” he asked quietly. 

The boy bit his lip. It looked like a nervous habit of his, one that made it hard for Silva to keep his own mouth to himself. “The reason I needed you,” he said slowly, “was to get more power. I’ll be overwhelming their magic. The backlash will probably kill whoever’s weaker.” 

“You won’t be weaker, though,” Silva said, brow raised. “Wasn’t what we just did enough to guarantee that?”

Chrollo hid part of his face in the pillow. “That’s assuming Snorre’s völva isn’t off doing that same thing,” he muttered. 

Silva had to laugh at that. “I can tell you now, Snorre is an ugly boar of a man. Any völva needing power would be hard pressed to sleep with him more than once.” He wrapped his hand around the boy’s narrow waist, dragging him closer until he was pressed against Silva’s body. “But if you’re worried, we could always do it again if you don’t think it’s enough,” he suggested, smiling when Chrollo’s face turned bright pink. “I’m far more handsome.”

“You complete beast,” the boy complained, hiding his face in Silva’s chest since he was tugged away from his pillow. “It’s enough. Trust me. You’re too much for anyone to take twice.”

Laughing, Silva gave his rear a squeeze, just to hear him make one of his cute yelps. “Then there’s nothing to be worried about,” he said, savoring the soft scent of the witch’s hair. Only for a moment though, since Chrollo pushed away from him, avoiding the petting and roving hands like a persnickety cat rejecting attention. He let him go, watching the boy take back his pillow with a muted glare. “You’ll be fine, brat. My men and I will be there to make sure nothing happens.”

“You won’t be able to do much if something does happen,” Chrollo mumbled, tugging at the blankets to hide more of himself, discouraging Silva from groping him again. “Once I start, that’s it. I can’t be touched or moved from the nexus of whatever forest I do it in. It’s a battle between me and the other völva. No one else. One of us will die, and that will determine the fate of your kingdom. It’s...dangerous. I wouldn’t do it if there were any other option.”

It didn’t sit well with Silva. What sort of battle was that? The risk was greater than he had anticipated. If Chrollo did fail… He cut himself off before he could finish that thought. Chrollo wouldn’t fail. He had gotten his power strengthened and that would be enough to see him the victor. Silva let his hand alight on the boy’s cheek, stroking a thumb along his delicate cheekbone. A face like his wasn’t common amongst Silva’s people, his eyes and hair too dark, his face too sharp. It was beautiful, in a way, for all its foreignness. 

“Where are you from?”

The distrust from before colored Chrollo’s eyes again, but less so. It was muted behind his curiosity, and his exhaustion. Chrollo worried his reddened lip between his teeth, turning his cheek into Silva’s soft touches. “Nowhere, really,” he said, his voice as delicate as a dove’s in the silence of the room. He didn’t protest the topic change. If anything, he craved it for the distraction it provided. “I was always traveling with my mother. We went where she needed to go and once she died I never stopped moving. I guess I was too used to it to stop.” He closed his dark eyes, melting into Silva’s caress. 

His mother. “Was she a völva, too?” he asked, wondering if she might have been the same one he had seen as a child. “There was once a renown völva who came to this hall a couple decades ago at the behest of my father. Could that have been her?” She had been beautiful, with long dark hair and eyes that could see through to the souls of men. Silva had barely been fourteen, just a little whelp, but he remembered her meeting his eyes and stunning him to the core. 

Chrollo blinked, and for a moment, the eyes of the woman in his memory seemed to overlap with the boy’s. “She was,” he said softly, his voice turning a bit sad. “And I’m not sure. She spoke once or twice about being invited into the hall of a Jarl. Of being received with honor and courtesy.” Chrollo sighed. “What did she look like? Did you hear her speak?” 

Silva stroked down Chrollo’s cheek, tracing the angles of his face with his knuckles. “Like you,” he said quietly. “Bewitching. She spoke only to my father. No one else dared to bother her.”

“That sounds like her,” Chrollo said. He was smiling now, something gentle and nostalgic, but tinged with a note of loss. He hooked his slender fingers in the bracelet around Silva’s wrist, tugging at it gently. “Is that where this came from?”

Turning his wrist, Silva looked at the braids. “I would assume so,” he said, thinking back to when he’d been given them. “My mother gave them to me as a child. She said they were a gift, that they would bring me luck.”

“You’ve been blessed,” Chrollo said softly, giving it one last tug before letting his hand fall. “I’ve long worn out all of the ones my mother ever made me.”

Silva didn’t need to ask to know that she had passed away at some point, leaving Chrollo all alone. Had his robe belonged to her? It would explain his intense protectiveness of it if it had. “What was she like?” he asked, wanting to see Chrollo brighten up. “She must have been something special if my father invited her here.”

Chrollo closed his eyes, sighing again. “Why?” he asked softly, Silva’s fingers pausing on his cheek. 

Silva raised a brow. “Why what?”

“Why do you keep asking about me and my past? Why do you want to know?” He opened an eye, but the distrust was gone. In its place sat simple curiosity and an almost relaxed acceptance. Silva moved his hand lower, cupping the witch’s slender neck, his thumb stroking a mark he’d left with his teeth. Chrollo’s eyes fell shut again, his lips parted in the ghost of a sigh. 

Silva swallowed, that churning feeling back with a vengeance. He couldn’t stop staring at the witch’s lips. They had been so soft against his own. With Chrollo’s eyes closed, he inched closer. Chrollo had asked him so nicely before for a kiss, so he wouldn’t mind another one now, right? 

Before he could see for himself, a knock sounded on his door, loud and insistent and enough to shatter the soft, downy mood. Chrollo startled and Silva reared back before he could notice what he’d nearly done. “Damnit,” Silva cursed, sitting up and fixing his trousers. “Hold on!” he called, running his fingers through Chrollo’s hair one last time before he rose from the bed to answer the door. 

The moment he reached the door, he threw it open with a glare already in place and a barked reply at the ready. “What is it?” he demanded, Oskarr waiting at the ready with a bored look on his face. “Did something happen?”

Oskarr’s eyes widened and for a moment Silva felt a stab of fear that something had indeed happened. It disappeared a moment after though when he realized where Oskarr was looking. His eyes were trained over Silva’s shoulder, locked on the naked witch laying in his bed, the thick bear fur covering his ass and only part of one leg. “Silva, you old dog,” the man laughed, loud enough for Chrollo to hear. “You sure did a number on the little bitch.”

Silva didn’t need to turn around to see that Chrollo was hiding himself under the fur now. “What did you need, Oskarr?” he sighed, leaning against the door frame. Did he see the marks he’d left on Chrollo’s skin? What a mess. He had wanted to keep this little tryst a secret to spare Chrollo from more ridicule and himself from this sort of talk. Given the general mood of the place, he really couldn’t see a need for it.

“Oh, not much,” Oskarr laughed, still staring over Silva’s shoulder, drinking in the sight. “The men were getting restless with the chieftains on their way, is all. Haven’t seen you since you disappeared in here, though now I can see why.” His eyes switched to Silva’s, his smirk wide. “You should consider giving the rest of us a turn. It’d surely raise morale, given the state of things.”

He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn’t help it. Silva laughed. “I would imagine that it would,” he chuckled, giving Oskarr a friendly punch to the shoulder. “But I don’t think I’ve quite tired of the little he-witch just yet. Keep me updated on when the chieftains arrive,” he said, pushing himself off the door frame. “They won’t be happy when they get here, and we need to receive them as kindly as we are able.”

Oskarr nodded, clapping Silva on his bare shoulder. “Of course, my liege.” He gave Chrollo’s covered form one last longing look before turning to leave. “Don’t let him bewitch you now, Silva,” he teased, waving. “I hear when they do it itches like nothing else.”

Silva laughed, giving him a lazy wave too before closing the door. He probably had been spoiling Chrollo for too long if even his men were beginning to wonder where he had disappeared to. Rubbing at the back of his head, he turned, ready to rejoin Chrollo. “Sorry about that,” he began, until he saw that Chrollo wasn’t where he had left him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Chrollo looked up from tugging on his leggings but only to glare. Silva nearly balked at the force of it. It was gone as soon as it had come, the witch turning back to dressing himself, wincing as he worked around the fresh wound on his leg and the no-doubt foreign aches assaulting his body. 

“Hey,” Silva said louder, walking over to him to push him back into the bed. Chrollo smacked away his hand before he could touch. “I asked what you were doing,” Silva frowned. “You’d can’t get up yet, brat. You’re injured.”

None of that seemed to slow him down, though. Chrollo forced himself to stand, grabbing his cloak from where it’d fallen to the floor, covering himself completely. “Where is Moop?” he demanded, his eyes hard and his face closed off. 

“What is your problem?” Silva shot back. 

“ _ My _ problem?” Chrollo asked, laughing with disbelief. “What’s  _ my problem _ ? Maybe the fact that you find it funny to talk about throwing me to your men to  _ raise morale _ ,” he spat. He balled his hands into fists, shaking his head. “I can’t believe I thought you might actually be a decent human being beneath this, this,” he threw his hand up, words failing him. He covered his face, scrubbing at his eyes like he might be about to cry. “I can’t believe I let you fool me like that,” he whispered. 

“Chrollo, would you just get back in the bed and listen to me-”

“No!” the witch shouted, his hands falling to his sides. His eyes were red and damp, but no tears fell. Taking a deep breath, Chrollo leveled Silva with a look hot enough to melt iron. “Where. Is. Moop.”

Silva didn’t know whether to be pissed or offended. “I told you already, she’s with the dogs,” he said. Knowing the hour, they’d probably be out in the hall, waiting for their dinner scraps. “You don’t have to leave,” he tried. “I’ll get her. You can stay here. You shouldn’t sleep out there when you’re sick.” Silva reached for Chrollo’s arm, for that easy intimacy they had shared before.

“No,” Chrollo said coldly, shoving past Silva and his outreached hand. He didn’t look back until he’d reached the door, hiding his pain in the hardset look in his eyes. “I’ll sleep with the dogs,” he said, the hard mein cracking, alongside his voice. “Where I belong.”

The door slammed shut before Silva could say anything, leaving him alone, the warmth gone with the witch.


	7. Chapter 7

Chrollo wasn’t sure how his situation could get worse than it already was, but walking out of Silva’s room proved that there was always room to go lower. His body ached, his head pounded, and between his legs lay a mess slicking his inner thighs more and more with every step he took. Wrapping his cloak tighter around himself hardly helped with any of his problems, but Chrollo did it regardless, searching out the front hall in a daze. He needed to find Moop. He needed to get away from Silva. 

How could he have been so stupid? Chrollo turned a corner and rubbed at his eyes with his sleeve, getting rid of any evidence of how badly he’d just been hurt. It would be awful if anyone saw him now, with tears in his eyes and Silva’s touch still emblazoned on his skin. The rumors and talk were already going around. Chrollo didn’t need to add more fuel to the flames. 

He heard the sound of the hall before he saw it and Chrollo threw his hood over his head before he bothered turning the corner. The men were in there, drinking and eating and brawling away as they did, and he wanted no part in it. With any luck, Moop would be close by and he’d be able to grab her and hide in a corner away from their loud voices and cruel thoughts. 

“Did you hear?” Chrollo made out as he carefully traversed the crowded hall, riding the shadows of a serving girl to avoid drawing undue attention. “The Jarl took the he-witch to bed!”

Chrollo nearly froze in place, his stomach turned to solid lead. He forced his feet to keep moving though, keeping his head down and onto the floor, searching for Moop instead of the voice that seemed to carry above all the others, airing his affairs to the world as raunchily as it could. 

“Silva, you old dog!” another voice crowed, and Chrollo felt his ears burn, his muscles seizing painfully at the sound. “Will he share? Did you ask?”

_ Stop talking,  _ Chrollo screamed in the quiet din of his own head.  _ Stop talking stop talking stoptalkingstoptalking- _

“Once he tires of the bitch,” the first voice laughed, and Chrollo stifled a sob in his sleeve, walking even faster. “Can’t think of a better way to honor those who died than to fuck that little bitch until he’s screaming so loudly they can hear. I can’t wait to get my hands on that ass-”

Chrollo stopped listening, shoving past the serving girl to sprint to the back of the hall. Thankfully no one seemed to notice his desperate movements, too caught up as they were in their fantasizing. Pain, hot and horrid, tore through his body, throbbing in time to his wounded leg, but Chrollo didn’t stop running until he was at the far end of the hall, nearing the fire where the dogs usually rested after they had eaten their fill of scraps. Would Moop still be with them? He prayed to any god listening that the dogs might have kept her far from the tables and far from the men who saw her as just more sport to be had. 

The anxiety didn’t disappear for a while, but then, all at once, it did. For as awful as he felt, he had to smile when he caught sight of Moop’s little head popping out of the middle of the dogs. They lay sleeping but it was obvious Moop wasn’t quite ready for bed just yet. She struggled and wiggled, catching sight of Chrollo across the way, scaling the slick fur of Mike’s back to stand on top of the dog’s sleeping body. She only had to baa twice for Chrollo to race over to her as quickly as he could, before any of the oblivious men heard her. The dogs perked up once they heard him come closer, hackles raised until they saw it was him and not one of the drunken men. 

“Did you miss me, baby?” Chrollo whispered, dipping down to cup Moop’s small head, covering her with kisses. “I missed you so much. I never should have let him take you away. I’ll never leave you again, okay?”

Moop baa’d softly, licking his cheek eagerly. Chrollo gave her a watery smile, feeling too close to the verge of tears to be lingering out here in the open. “Come here,” he said, clicking his tongue at the dogs to rouse them to their feet. “Your friends can come too.” Chrollo picked her up and ducked behind the nearest corner, sitting himself gingerly on the stone to let the dogs bracket him with their warm bodies. They at least would keep him safe, and maybe if someone approached while Chrollo slept, they’d growl or bark and wake him up. 

His body hurt so much. He didn’t have the strength to fight someone off if they did come looking for him, but hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. 

“Thank you,” Chrollo murmured, scratching the dogs’ ears. “Thank you for sitting with her. And for sitting with me.” The dogs licked his hands, their tongues flopping out as they panted happily at him. Moop followed suit, her tiny pink tongue peeking out as she tried to emulate her friends. Chrollo smiled back, relieved that he had these creatures to rely on, if no one else. 

With Moop back in his arms and the dogs on either side making up for the absent warmth of the fire, Chrollo could at least begin to imagine that the world was kinder than it really was.

A tear rolled down his cheek as the weight of everything pressed down on Chrollo’s shoulders. It disappeared in Moop’s soft fleece, the rest following suit soon after. Shoulders hitching and hips aching, Chrollo curled up beside the dogs, letting Moop’s soft chatter lull him into a fitful sleep.

When he awoke, it was to the sound of unfamiliar voices, heated and loud and echoing through the expansive hall. Chrollo jolted up, startling Moop out of her deep sleep atop his chest. What was going on? Moop looked up at him curiously, nudging his chin with her head when he failed to kiss her good morning. Chrollo smiled and gave her what she wanted, all the while looking for the source of the loud voices. It wasn’t within eyesight which meant it must be beyond the corner he had tucked himself behind. 

“Keep quiet now, baby,” he whispered to Moop, lifting himself up on legs that only shook a little. “We don’t want to attract too much attention.” Moop blinked and flicked her ears, giving a muted baa in response. Chrollo smiled at her, rewarding her with another kiss. She’d need to be fed soon, but thankfully, he still had what remained of the milk tucked into his satchel. Once he figured out what was going on, he’d give her breakfast. 

With quiet care, Chrollo sidled around the corner, entering the main portion of the hall as unobtrusively as he could. Where before there had been the rows and rows of tables, now there stood only one, the rest pressed up against the walls out of the way. Chrollo counted down the line, seeing at least a dozen men seated with weapons present and expressions somber. Silva sat at the head of them all, placed at a position of honor while the men argued and ignored him in favor of shouting out at the men across from them. Were these the chieftains he’d heard of the night before? 

What childish, boorish men, he thought, keeping close to the wall as he sneaked closer. The fire was somewhere behind Silva’s seat and Moop needed warm milk this early in the morning. At least if he sat behind him, Chrollo wouldn’t have to worry about seeing much of the man. Or remembering how he looked the night before, hovering over him with the furious intent he always seemed to wear. Chrollo swallowed, banishing the thoughts aggressively. He didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to think about Silva at all. 

The arguing was even louder up close. Words could hardly be made out beneath the deluge of anger tinging the men’s speech. Moop winced and hid her head under Chrollo’s arm, hiding from the noise. Chrollo moved silently, glaring at Silva as he passed him by, for both the noise and the night before. Chrollo passed the table without attracting any attention, falling to his knees before the fire with the pouch of milk to warm in against the heated hearthstone. 

At least Silva seemed to be having a terrible go of it too, if the expression on his face was anything to go off of. Chrollo curled up some distance behind the Jarl’s chair, watching the man’s discomfort with Moop in his lap and, once it had warmed up, the last of the milk in his hand. So, these were the chieftains of the still-remaining villages. Chrollo hadn’t expected them to be so surly or so angry at Silva. For as much as Chrollo currently detested the man, he knew well enough that Silva was doing all he could to end the calamity befalling the kingdom. 

“-and we cannot sit by and wait for death to meet us in our beds!” the chieftain of a western village shouted, punctuating the exclamation with a firm fist to the table, somehow managing to make his voice rise above the rest, earning himself the hall’s undivided attention for at least a moment. “What do you wish us to do, Jarl Silva? Cradle our families close and pray that we might be passed by?”

“It’s not like that would even do much good,” another chieftain sighed, his eyes morose and nearly bored in the face of the tension surrounding him. It was obvious to Chrollo that the man had long tired of the constant stress and that he merely came as a matter of duty. “If the Jarl’s reports are true, then the marauders would come in the night to slaughter those who remain regardless.”

“Alfarr!” the first shouted, slamming his fist down again, the fire in his blue eyes carrying the unmistakable heat of fight in them. He stood as well, looming over the apathetic man. “That is coward’s talk! Would you sit by and watch your family die, then? Would you do nothing?”

Alfarr bared his teeth, looking more alive than he had the entire meeting thus far. He stood, his hands resting on the table threateningly as he leaned towards the other chieftain. “Are you calling me a coward, Ulfric?” he hissed, and Silva saw that moment to interject. 

“Sit down,” he ordered, his voice threaded with steel, “the both of you.” 

Chrollo smiled into Moop’s fleece, rolling his eyes as Alfarr and Ulfric sat with barely repressed fury. These men had no sense of timing, getting angry like that. Everything they cared for was at risk, but they still were ready to come to blows with allies over the matter of honor. “Aren’t you happy I’m not like that?” he whispered into Moop’s odd little ear, kissing her nose when she turned to smile at him cheerfully. With her belly full and warm, she had been nothing but happy to sit in his lap while all the strangers gathered and argued. 

“Well, what do you intend us to do, Jarl Silva?!” another shouted, this one hailing from the southern portion of the kingdom if his accent were anything to go off of. “Our numbers have been halved already. Do you intend to let us all perish?” His voice boomed in the hall, loud enough that Moop startled and burrowed her head into Chrollo’s robes, hiding from what probably sounded to her like thunder. The dogs that sat at his side twitched their ears, licking along Moop’s back as if sensing her fear. 

There was a measure of silence, in which all those gathered looked to Silva as one, waiting on the answer to the horror befalling them. Silva sighed, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. Chrollo stared anywhere but at him, cradling Moop close until she stopped shaking. 

“I have a plan,” he said stonily, and the hall erupted into an uproar of questions and demands. 

“What is it?!”

“Tell us!”

“Then why have you done nothing?!”

Silva put up with the haranguing for as long as Chrollo expected him to, which was not long at all. He stood up and slammed his hands down, making even the dogs jump this time in surprise. Chrollo closed his eyes and shushed Moop, wishing they could go outside where the voices of loud, angry men wouldn’t reach them. But, slowly, the room settled, all eyes returning to the Jarl to hear of his plan. Moop continued to shake though and the dogs pressed tightly on either side of Chrollo, their heads resting on his crossed knees. 

“I’ve found a völva,” he said simply, and Chrollo opened his eyes in surprise, looking at the man who steadily avoided his eye. Was he actually calling Chrollo his proper title? His lip curled, Chrollo looking away the second Silva’s cool blue eyes touched his. He was probably trying to suck up to him again. It wouldn’t work. Silva had already shown his true colors. There was nothing left between them but the deal they had made at the start of this mess. 

Ulfric gaped, running a hand down his beard. “You’ve found a völva?” he asked, once the chatter had died down after Silva’s proclamation. “Haven’t they all been killed? Where did you find one? Did you go outside of the territory?” Another rumble of asset swelled like brontide, Chrollo catching one or two thoughts that made it seem that bringing in an outside völva would be as risky as doing nothing. 

Chrollo rolled his eyes, scratching one of the dog’s ears and then scratching the other’s, for fairness sake. They hardly had the room to be picky yet here they were, staring their salvation in the face and questioning it anyway. 

“The völva is...not conventional,” Silva explained, and Chrollo stopped petting the dogs to listen. He kept his head down though, knowing what would come next. There was the sound of shifting fabric, and then a beat of silence before the cacophonous outrage broke out. Silva was quick to quell it but not quick enough for the insults to be sheathed before they struck. 

Alfarr was the voice who broke through, his words nothing but a deadly hiss. “Jarl Silva,” he said, and all the rest quieted in the wake of his anger. “You would use this... _ abomination _ ?”

“Would you rather watch your kin and countrymen die?” Silva responded. 

“There would be more honor in dying,” Valdemar, one of the eastern chieftains, growled. Chrollo raised his head, feeling all eyes upon him, only to meet Valdemar’s frigid pale eyes head on. “There would be more honor in slaughtering this assault on all that is right and fighting the enemy head on before Snorre can go through with his plot to eradicate us all through plague and ambush.” 

Moop sensed the hatred being thrown in their direction. She looked up, glancing behind her at the men intent upon them. Chrollo held her tighter, eyes hard, waiting for someone to try. If they made one move towards him, Chrollo would set this entire hall aflame and leave them all to rot in the misery they had chosen over the logic of Chrollo’s aid. 

Before he could ready his magic, though it hardly needed readying given the charge he’d amassed from Silva’s involvement, Silva was already intervening. 

“Then do it,” he ordered, rending the babble with his voice alone. “Do it, Valdemar. Strike dead the one being left in this place who has any chance of ending this. Return to your family with the news that they will soon be dead because you valued honor above all else, even their lives. Tell your daughter she will never live to marry, your son that he shall never carry his sword into battle to bring honor to his name. Tell them all that using this völva was not worth the shame his existence brings, blind as you are to the good it could do now.” Silva glared hotly at every man in turn, meeting each’s eyes until they wilted beneath his words. “Do it,” he said quietly, in a tone that Chrollo had never heard him use before. “Do it if you think that now is the time to favor honor over pragmatism.” 

Chrollo didn’t dare breathe. He didn’t dare stir. Moop huddled closer to his chest, burying her face, lulled to sleep by the sound of his stuttering heartbeat. Would it be so easy? Would Silva’s words alone be enough to get them on his side? His cheeks burned at the fervor in which Silva tried. No one had ever fought for him like that, though he knew it was for Silva’s own sake that he even bothered. A few of the men whispered amongst one another and a few others stared heatedly at Chrollo as if to assess his worth and power.  _ Could the he-witch really stop it?  _ a few murmured.  _ What will the Jarl do with it once it fulfils its purpose?  _ another broached, and Chrollo let out a low sigh and looked at the fire. There would be no gratitude from these men, he realized. He could save their lives a dozen times over and they would never be willing to let him live his life free from scorn. 

“What do you intend to have it do?” Ulfric asked after the chatter had died down. Chrollo could feel his eyes upon him but he refused to turn to make sure. “What could one he-witch do that all of the kingdom’s völva couldn’t? Why hasn’t the sickness killed it? How do you know that this whelp isn’t the cause of all that is happening?”

“I intend,” Silva began, cutting the man off before he could devolve into baseless fear-mongering, “to have him perform a ritual to cleanse the kingdom of the outside magic afflicting it. The völva before him didn’t suspect outside magic until they had already been struck down by sickness. It is obvious now that the curse was sent to target true völva, and thus he was spared.” Silva glared at Ulfric. “I know that he isn’t responsible because he is my völva. If you question my decision, you will deal with me, Ulfric, not the boy.”

His völva?  _ His  _ völva? Chrollo speared Silva with his glare and stood up, the dogs waking up and whining at losing their pillow. Moop though stayed fast asleep, nestled in his arms. All the men watched him but Chrollo paid them no mind. He merely left the hall without a backwards glance, shouldering open the wide door to the outside to escape the smoky, oppressive air of the hall. The dogs followed, sniffing at his heels as he led them off towards the horses. 

Chrollo belonged to no one, least of all Silva. Last night cemented that, though in Silva’s mind it must have done the exact opposite. Moop stirred a little but Chrollo just kissed her head and hummed softly to her, soothing her back to sleep. The sooner he could be rid of this place and the Jarl, the better off Chrollo would be. It wouldn’t be much longer, he told himself. The chieftains being here meant that action would soon be taken. Chrollo’s magic being bolstered meant that he was more than ready to end it all, the curse and his stay both. He entered the barn that housed the horses and set Moop down on the hay strewn ground, letting the dogs curl up protectively around her so Chrollo could go visit the horses. 

Looking around at the empty barn, Chrollo was met with the observation that it would be so easy just to run away. There was no sign of a stable boy or guard, of a servant or even children playing amongst the pens. Chrollo sighed and looked through the stables for Silva’s horse, wishing that running were an option. Before it might have been. But now, after all he’d gone through, all he’d done with Silva, it would be a waste to run when none of it had been made worth it. If Chrollo were to suffer the indignity of the night before, he wanted at the very least to have the knowledge that it hadn’t been suffered in vain. 

A soft whinny broke him from his darkening thoughts and Chrollo looked up to find the dappled grey horse watching him overtop her stable’s gate. Chrollo smiled at her and held out a hand, stroking down her long nose when she deigned to lower her head. “Hello, sweet one,” he murmured, wishing again that he had something to give her. An apple, a carrot, even a handful of barley: he had nothing, though she hardly seemed put out by his lack of offering. 

“You don’t take me for granted, do you?” he asked, standing up on his toes to kiss her smooth cheek. “You just like me for me. I can’t say I understand why, but thank you all the same.” 

The horse made a happy little chuff, nosing along his cheek in return. Chrollo smiled, wishing he could be surrounded by horses instead of people. Perhaps then he’d be able to have some peace for once and be treated kindly. What a difference that would be. 

“Talking to the horses again?” a voice called out, cutting short what little peace Chrollo had managed to build. “You really are a freak.”

Chrollo didn’t need to turn his head to see who was at the barn door. He recognized the voice easily, though it was almost foreign sounding without the slur of drunkenness blurring the speech. He let out a sigh, letting his hand fall from the horse’s neck as he looked over his shoulder at Ivar. “Don’t you have a tankard to be emptying?” he asked, too tired to be dealing with the likes of Ivar, or any of the others he could see just outside the barn’s entrance. The man had brought friends as if he feared Chrollo singing him like he’d done Oskarr. What pathetic warriors they were to be afraid of him. 

Ivar laughed, though Chrollo could tell easily enough that it was done to save himself face. He walked into the barn, far too pompous given the setting and occasion. “Don’t you have a bed to be warming?” Ivar threw back, his friends filing in slowly. “Or did the Jarl already grow bored of you?”

He should have expected the conversation to turn to that. He should have, but Chrollo still flinched, breaking eye contact to stare at anything other than the men blocking the door. A chorus of raucous laughter rose up from Ivar’s barb, chilling Chrollo’s blood to ice. This was his life now. Reduced to a whore in the eyes of society’s most respected warriors as he scraped by as the Jarl’s personal witch. 

“What?” another man asked, leaning in close to try and peer beneath Chrollo’s fringe. “Got nothing smart to say? Where’s that quick wit of yours, he-witch? Did you leave that in the Jarl’s bed chambers too?”

“Get away from me.”

The men all paused, sharing a look amongst themselves. Ivar gave another loud laugh, striding forward to grab Chrollo by the hair, forcing his face up. “What was that?” he asked condescendingly, his fetid breath threatening to make Chrollo’s eyes water. “Did you just try to order us around, bitch?”

Chrollo glared as hot as embers, his hands balling up into fists at his sides. The magic he’d siphoned from Silva vibrated beneath his skin, begging for an outlet, hating the wait. “Get away from me,” Chrollo said again, letting his power thread his voice, letting it tinge his eyes white. “Get away from me now, or I’ll slaughter every last one of you.”

Ivar flinched hard enough for Chrollo to feel. His grip loosened but his friends either didn’t feel Chrollo’s anger half as much, or they just didn’t care. One of them, a lumbering blond ox of a man, took a step forward, a fist raised as if to strike a blow. 

He’d given them a warning. Two warnings, even. The man took another step and Chrollo stopped caring about holding back. He let the magic erupt, giving into the overwhelming current making itself at home in his body. 

_ Hurt them,  _ he channeled into the energy.  _ Hurt them and make them bleed.  _

The effect was instantaneous. Chrollo had never before held so much power and releasing even an iota of it held dangerous results. Bursts of light shot from his body, seeking the men like targeted arrows of intent. There was no time to scream and certainly no time to run. Chrollo closed off the wellspring of power before it could all seep out, but among the outpouring of screams and curses, he knew it was enough. 

Ivar dropped to his knees at Chrollo’s side first, the hand that had been gripping Chrollo nearly severed at the wrist. Blood poured from the wound, staining the ground red. The horses whinnied, the dogs barked, and Moop ran for Chrollo, but the men all cried out in pain, the only recipients of his anger. 

“You bitch!” Ivar shouted, though his voice was nearly in tatters, like his wrist. “What the fuck was that?!” He lifted his head and took in the barn with watery eyes, seeing that his friends were all in a similar state. One had been struck in the leg, another in the shoulder. One clutched at his eyes, blood pouring down his cheek in a flood of gore. 

“I warned you,” Chrollo whispered, and somehow the words were able to be heard over the cries of pained men. “Don’t touch me. Don’t look at me. Don’t breath my air. I hurt you this time, but I will kill you the next.” Out of the corner of his eye, he registered one of the men closest to the door dart outside, running and abandoning his friends to Chrollo’s ire. Pathetic.

They were all so pathetic.

A weak hand grabbed his ankle and Chrollo looked back down at Ivar. Blood, sticky and warm, soaked through his legging. “You fucking bitch,” Ivar snarled, the pain making him look rabid and pale. “I’m going to bend you over and-”

Chrollo didn’t let him finish. Why should he? He had all the power here, so there was no point in letting a rabid dog get its way. He kicked his leg free from Ivar’s weak grip and stomped down hard on the man’s ruined wrist, making him scream brokenly into the air. The horses shifted uneasily, so Chrollo let out another burst of magic, soothing them and Moop as well as the dogs before they truly grasped what was happening. No need to frighten the small ones. Not for the likes of these beasts. 

Grabbing a handful of Ivar’s hair, Chrollo mirrored the position the man had held him in before. He brought his lips to his ear, smiling against the shell. “How much do I have to hurt you before you understand?” Chrollo asked, watching Ivar’s eyes widen with panic. “I’ve told you all before: If you disrespect a völva, it will be you who rues the day.”

Ivar opened his mouth but no words came out. He looked quickly between Chrollo and the wounded, moaning masses that were his friends. For all the battles he had seen, the man looked as fear-stricken as a child caught out in a storm. Chrollo knew he wasn’t the kind of person to take pleasure in the suffering of others, but watching Ivar shake and sweat after all he’d done to Chrollo felt more like justice than sadism. 

It was short-lived. He should have expected Silva to come bursting in. It shouldn’t have surprised him at all when the Jarl slammed open the barn doors, the wounded runner lingering somewhere behind him, still clutching at his bleeding side. Chrollo backed away from Ivar, letting the man drop back down onto the thresh covered ground. “Finally come to intervene?” Chrollo muttered, kicking Ivar one last time for good measure. 

Silva didn’t seem to hear him, occupied as he was in taking in the carnage that had become his barn. Blood soaked the dirt and the men lay groaning in crumpled heaps, the air still faintly crackling with the errant traces of Chrollo’s flickering magic. The Jarl’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “What happened here,” he demanded, not bothering with making it a question. It was an order and they all knew it. 

“My...my liege!” Ivar tried to begin, and Chrollo just crossed his arms, staring down at him in wait of what lies he would spew, if he dared spew any at all given the scare he’d just been given. “This bitch just...just…”

Chrollo wasn’t surprised he struggled. What was he to say? That he and all of his friends had come upon the he-witch and attacked him? That Chrollo had somehow bested them all, leaving them wounded and bleeding in the dirt? Where would the honor be in admitting any of that and what honor could be found in a lie? Caught as he was, Ivar swallowed his words, resorting to staring at Silva imploringly. 

“I defended myself,” Chrollo cut in when it was obvious none of the men would hang themselves with their own words. “I warned them. They should have left me be.”

The Jarl tried to make Chrollo wilt with his glare but it didn’t work. Not even in the slightest. “Get your asses out of here, now!” Silva barked after a moment of silence, grabbing the blond by the shoulder and throwing him out of the barn. 

“But-but…!” another man tried, but he met the same fate as the blond, Silva grabbing him by the nape and tossing him out into the paddock. 

“I don’t give a fuck what he did, if I see you pulling this shit again, I’ll strip you bare and leave you to the wolves!” 

Ivar swallowed what words he might have been about to say. Instead, he clutched at his bleeding wrist and scrambled messily to his feet, leaving the barn as quickly as he could without breaking out into a full on run, the remaining few men racing out behind him. The barn went silent, Moop nudging at Chrollo’s shins now that the loud men were gone, wanting to be picked up.  

Chrollo didn’t have the chance to humor her. The moment they were alone, Silva rounded on Chrollo, refusing to let him savor what little victory this had been for himself. 

“I hope you’re proud of yourself,” Silva hissed in a way that said the exact opposite. “You wounded some of my best men with that little trick of yours.” He said it as if he knew exactly what Chrollo had done, though it was unlikely the man who’d run for him had bothered to tell him all that had occurred. Just another instance of Silva pretending to know more about völva than he actually did. 

“What did you expect?” Chrollo asked, crossing his arms to glare at the man still standing by the door. “What did you expect to happen after you made those jokes? That your men wouldn’t take it seriously? That they wouldn’t try to come after me?!”

“Shut up,” Silva said, shoving away from the entrance to walk closer to Chrollo. “If you hadn’t run off, you wouldn’t have gotten into this mess.” He said it as if he was so certain, as if anything that befell Chrollo at the hands of his men was Chrollo’s fault alone and no one else’s. “The chieftains are finally on board with using you. If you get yourself hurt now, I’ll look like a fool for the fight I put up for you.”

Chrollo narrowed his eyes, watching Silva as he strode past Chrollo to visit with his horse himself. Moop watched them both with wide, silent eyes, for once staying put instead of racing towards Silva the moment he came close. Did she sense the tension in the air? Perhaps she could just see how hurt Chrollo was. “Well, I would certainly hate making you look like a fool,” Chrollo said, hoping that Silva sensed half of what he put in the words. “I’ll try to keep myself out of trouble since it’s completely my fault if your men try to jump on me like rabid dogs.”

That got Silva’s attention. His hand paused on his horse’s neck, his eyes narrowing as he turned back to take in his angry witch. “What is it?” he asked, and if he hadn’t looked so bored, the question might have come off as legitimately concerned. “I stopped them, so what does it matter now? They know you’re mine. Stop acting so childish.”

“I don’t belong to you,” Chrollo snapped and when Silva recoiled, he felt vindicated. “And I didn’t need your help.”

The horse whinnied, counting against the soft ground uneasily. Silva pulled away from her, turning fully to take in Chrollo. “You never do, do you?” the Jarl growled, his hands balled into fists. For a moment, Chrollo thought he might strike him but the blow never came. Instead, Silva let out a sharp breath, the fight leaving him just like that. “Until this plague is stopped, just stay by my side, will you?”

Chrollo bared his teeth, wishing Moop didn’t have to see this. She was hiding behind his boot now, staring at Silva with her ears flattened against her skull. The man was speaking too loudly, letting his anger tinge the air with fear. “Fine,” Chrollo spat, staring venomously at Silva. “Until I fix  _ your shortcomings,  _ I’ll be sure to let you hold my fucking hand so your men don’t defile me any more than you already have.” 

Silva gaped. He took a step back, looking as if he’d been smacked across the face. Chrollo didn’t let him run. He moved forward, matching him for every step Silva took. Moop thankfully stayed back, watching them both. 

“What?” Chrollo asked, glaring up at Silva as hotly as he could. “Did you think I  _ enjoyed  _ giving a part of myself to you? Did you think I should be grateful that you got to fuck me after pressing me into your service on threat of death should I refuse?  _ Was I supposed to laugh when you joked about giving me to your men as a toy?”  _

“It...It wasn’t like that,” Silva tried to defend, holding his hands up in front of himself as if Chrollo were liable to bite. “Chrollo, come on, you know it’s-”

“Then what was it like?!” Chrollo demanded, feeling tears sting his eyes. The angrier he got, the harder it became to keep them back. He just wanted to go. He just wanted to take Moop and live his life away from people like this. “Are you too scared to tell your men that you care about me? That beneath all of your boasting, you actually have a heart? That I’m a person too, no matter what path I walk?”

Silva was getting angry. It showed in the line of his jaw, in the rigid way he held his shoulders. He stopped backing away and began moving forward, standing over Chrollo to loom like the beast he’d proved himself to be, time and time again. “I don’t owe you an explanation,” he said through clenched teeth. “I don’t owe you anything, brat.”

Of course. Of course he didn’t. All Chrollo was owed was abuse and barked orders. That was all he was worth in the eyes of people like this. 

The tears won out, falling down his cheeks in burning lines. Chrollo scooped up Moop and turned on his heel. “Don’t talk to me anymore,” he said, making sure it was loud enough for Silva to hear over the sound of his own ignorance. “I’ll fix your problems but after that, I want nothing to do with you.” With that hanging in the thick, oppressive air, Chrollo left, walking fast enough to outrun the heavy weight of Silva’s gaze upon his shoulders. 

Chrollo just shook it off. He’d have his happy ending, Chrollo muttered. And after that…

After that, Silva could rot for all Chrollo cared. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Google the title meaning.

Chrollo wasn’t entirely sure what possessed him to strike out the way he did, but when he saw the thane near the gate meandering about on horseback, he didn’t bother analyzing the whys of anything. His head was a mess of white noise and churning, roiling waves. All he knew was that he wanted to leave. Leave and be done with these people for the rest of his days. 

“You!” the man called out, catching sight of Chrollo stalking towards him on foot at a pace that left no room for misinterpretation. “Halt! Where do you think you’re going, he-witch-”

It took nothing at all to silence him. Or at least, it felt that way to Chrollo. The magic steeped into his bones rose on the merest whim, stealing the man’s voice easily. The man gaped and babbled silently, his eyes wide and fear-filled. Chrollo didn’t care though. Not about his fear or the line Chrollo was crossing by taking matters into his own hands. “Get off the horse,” Chrollo commanded, leaning down to snag Moop under her stomach, lifting her into his arms. She didn’t make a sound but stared at him curiously. Chrollo held her close, his focus on the man and the man alone. 

The time for waiting was over now. Silva had seen to that and who was Chrollo to remain where he most certainly was not wanted?

The silent, petrified thane dismounted with jerky motions, almost as if his limbs were being controlled by a force not privy to his desires. Chrollo took the reins from his shaking hand, tapping the man once on the cheek. “You won’t remember,” he whispered, and though this sort of magic was common to völva, the fact that he was casting it without his staff in hand spoke volumes to the power he’d been given thanks to Silva’s rough touch. “Go back into the hall. You won’t remember any of--”

“ _ Chrollo! _ ” Silva shouted loudly, cutting him off before he could finish his command. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

Chrollo whirled on his heel only to see Silva running across the courtyard towards him. His heart caught in his throat and Chrollo shoved the dazed man to the side, swinging up into the saddle with Moop plopped in his lap. “Leave me alone, Silva!” he called out to him, taking the reins and guiding the antsy horse towards the gates. “Don’t follow me!”

“Chrollo, get your ass back here!” Silva was nearly upon him, running faster than Chrollo had ever seen him move, save maybe when they were in the village and the marauders struck. He looked so worried now, though it muddled with the anger on his face. Moop tried to stand in Chrollo’s lap, sticking her head over Chrollo’s raised arm to bleat eagerly at Silva.

_ “No!”  _ Chrollo imbued, coaxing the earth the shift and trip Silva midstep. Hard-packed earth transformed to loose soil, soft and fine and sucking to the point that Silva could no longer run. He wrapped an arm around Moop’s middle and pulled her against his chest, blocking Silva from her sight. “Don’t follow me,” Chrollo shouted, digging his heels into the horse’s sides. “I can fix your mistakes without you!”

If Silva had something to say to that, Chrollo didn’t bother waiting around to hear it. He tore out of the gates and left the man in the dirt where he’d fallen, letting the soft dirt hamper him and the sting of Chrollo’s dismissal hurt him the way he had hurt Chrollo. Moop cried out pitifully as they left, her ears folded against her head as she stared back the way Chrollo wouldn’t. His heart ached for her, but she didn’t understand. She couldn’t. Chrollo lifted her up and kissed her ears, whispering to her that it was for the best. So long as this went to plan, they would never need to think about Silva again. Chrollo would take Moop to some far off place where no one knew their names, and he’d make a life for them, the sort of life they had always deserved. When placed up against what had to be done, a little ritual didn’t even register. Chrollo would demolish the other völva and take back the life he’d been promised. And maybe then he’d finally be happy. Maybe then he’d find a place to call home. 

“I’m sorry, but please trust me a little longer,” he whispered to Moop, hiding her face in his chest. Chrollo had promised to protect her, and he was going to do that, danger be damned. Moop nuzzled his lips with her soft nose and it was almost enough to console him. As much as she cared for Silva, Chrollo knew that they could never have a life with him. Not after he’d proven time and time again what kind of person he was. What he’d always be.

He needed to stop thinking about Silva. Chrollo tightened his hand around the reins, driving the horse on down the beaten path. What mattered now was the ritual and for him to complete that; he needed to get away from the hall and get to a forest. Readjusting his hold on Moop, Chrollo gave the horse its head, letting it run as fast as it wanted through the fields. He passed by farmers and peasants, slow carts and curious thanes who saw him but did nothing, thanks to another wave of the magic he wielded so easily now. None of them would try to stop him, and by the time they thought to try, he would be long gone, his tracks lost in the cool wind blowing from the north. 

It was when he found himself a few leagues from the hall that he first spotted what looked to be something more armed than a wayward thane on horseback. A group of armored men sat on the roadside, their horses grazing as they rested and relieved themselves. They looked up when Chrollo came into view, but Chrollo didn’t even bother to look at them as he passed. A few sought to block his path, standing in the way of his horse. He let a burst of magic blow out from him, shoving them all off their feet without slowing down at all. They went flying, cursing and shouting at him as he tore down the path, but Chrollo didn’t look back. If they were pissed off, then they could be pissed off. He didn’t have the time or will to care about them right now. Their shouts faded away in a whirl of wind and trampling, leaving Chrollo alone again with his thoughts and not much else. 

He needed to get to a forest. The only thing was he didn’t know where to go to find one. Silva’s lands were mostly flatland broken up by errant, scattered trees and rocky terrain. There was that forest near the village where they had been attacked, but Chrollo wasn’t sure he could find that again without Silva as a guide. Biting his lip, he slowed the horse a little, scanning the surroundings for any sight of something more substantial than a few scraggly trees. 

Rising dust caught his eye behind him, and Chrollo turned in the saddle to see the men from before racing towards him on horseback. Were they chasing after him? Chrollo groaned, turning back forward and digging his heels into the horse’s sides, taking off once again. He must have pissed them off or something. It was hard to imagine them caring so much, but then again, he had used magic on them. If they were part of the band of men going around slaughtering people, Chrollo could easily imagine the taking umbrage at being sent flying by a völva who, by all rights, shouldn’t even be alive in this part of the kingdom. 

Swearing under his breath, Chrollo leaned lower in the saddle, pressing Moop against the horse’s neck until she let out a startled squeak. Those probably were Snorre’s men, knowing his luck, and he probably had announced his existence to them in the worst way possible at the worst time possible. What a mess. He snapped the reins and turned the horse towards the east, heading back towards the prison where he’d first been found by Silva. There had been a forest there, he remembered, and given the current circumstances, it would be better for him to head for something he knew to be there than keep running off into the wilds praying he might stumble upon something closer. 

Chancing a glance over his shoulder, Chrollo let out a sigh of relief when he saw the cloud of dust far off behind him, nearly lost in the hills he’d already crossed. They were falling behind and he was nearly out of reach now. He looked back ahead through the horse’s flicking ears, catching sight of the dingy prison where this had all begun. A sneer curled his lip, but he shook it off before Moop could see it. So long as he got this ritual done, he’d never have to worry about being held down by anything– or anyone– ever again. 

Unfortunately, his relief was short-lived. He knew he was still being followed as soon as he reached the edge of the forest. He could read it in the way the wind moved through the trees, carrying the sounds and ill intents of a few dozen angry men. Somehow, they’d caught up to him or knew enough of this land to predict where he was going and beating him there. Chrollo kept moving despite it, refusing to look back. Either he’d lose them in the forest or he’d disable them in person. Nothing would stop him from ending this plague and gaining his freedom. It had been denied to him far too long for him to give any quarter to those who might get in his way. 

Darting into the forest, Chrollo rode the horse hard and fast, daring the men behind him to keep up. He needed to get to the center of the woods, to where all of the roots lay together. There, he’d find the connection he needed to engage the other völva, no matter where in the world they were. A few shouts cried out behind him, but Chrollo just turned the horse to the left. He needed to lose them first before he made his way to the center. If they followed him, there would be no way to do what he needed to do, and given the fight he would have with the völva, saving his magic was a much better idea than wasting it on the likes of them. 

Chrollo startled when he heard shouts come from his left now. How had they… Did they somehow manage to get ahead of him? He swore and held Moop closer to his chest, urging the horse to turn to the right, weaving through the trees like a fish traveling upstream. Sweat chilled on his skin as the horse ran faster. Why wouldn’t they fall behind? He hadn’t anticipated them keeping up like this, almost as if they knew who he was and what he was trying to do. 

Moop bleated nervously against his heart, and realization filled Chrollo in a sickening wave. Were they… herding him? A shout broke out on his right this time, proving that yes, they were. Chrollo swore under his breath and dug his heels into the horse, cutting down a hill faster than was safe. He couldn’t let himself get boxed in. Not now and not here. The moment he reached the bottom of the hill, Chrollo yanked back on the reins, stopping the horse in its tracks. If he were going to avoid the trap these men were laying, he would need to stop running in the way they wanted him to run. 

The first thing to go was the horse. Chrollo took what he needed from the already filled saddlebags and then smacked the horse on the flank, sending her running off into the woods. She was too easy to track, and the men would be looking for him on horseback. If he doubled back on foot, they probably wouldn’t see him amidst the trees. Chrollo hoisted Moop higher against his chest, looking around frantically. She couldn’t come with him either. It would be so dangerous, and Moop was too curious to be left on her own. He spotted a fallen tree through a thicket of brambles, and he sprinted towards it, cradling the lamb close. She wouldn’t like it, but he had no choice anymore. 

The tree was immense, ancient and still living though it had been ripped partially from the ground by what must have been a horrendous storm. In the twisted darkness of its exposed roots lay a small hollow, one that was just large enough to hide a small lamb from sight. Chrollo only prayed it would be light enough to keep her from being scared. To her, it might look too much like the collapsed cellar he’d found her in.

“I’m sorry, Moop,” he rushed, avoiding her eye as he looped a measure of pilfered rope around her small body, fashioning a harness with a few quick loops. “You can’t come with me. It’s too dangerous.” He kissed her head and lowered her into the small crevice, tying the end of the rope to a thick root behind her. “I’ll be back for you, so sit tight for me. Okay, baby?”

Moop stared at him with wide, dark eyes, trying her best to climb out of the hollow and back into his arms. Chrollo fought back the tears itching at his eyes, giving her small, bent ear one last kiss for luck. “Be quiet, baby,” he told her, rising to his feet with a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach. “Don’t come out unless it’s me.” She gave a sad bleat, but Chrollo couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t take her, and he’d spent enough time saying goodbye already. 

Her baa’s only followed him for a few steps until he began to run from the sound, snatching up the knife where he had left it in the dirt alongside the other supplies the thane had packed in the saddlebags. The horse was long gone and he hoped that might buy him a few minutes of time as the men chased her, but he refused to count on it. Chrollo kept running, cutting through a river to lose his scent. The riverbank was strewn with dried wood, and he grabbed as much as he could while running, searching for a clearing that would work for what he needed to do. 

_ “Tell me where to go,” _ he asked the forest, wasting another thimbleful of power to guide his feet towards the forest’s center.  _ “Tell me where the roots connect, and keep the lamb safe in your embrace.”  _ A shiver ran through the trees, and Chrollo followed it as quickly as he could, breaking off branches and grabbing up dried grass as he moved until his arms were filled with the makings of a fire. 

When he stumbled through a copse of trees and into a wide, perfectly circular clearing, he knew he had found the place. The ground beneath his feet vibrated dully with power, but Chrollo didn’t pay much mind to it. Chrollo skidded to his knees and dropped the armful of kindling to the forest floor, scrambling for his flint. Sparks flew and danced impotently along the dry grass and dead leaves, refusing to light until he imbued the wood with a bit of the magic. It was messy. It was rushed. Sloppy, so sloppy, he swore at himself. Stop wasting it. He needed every bit he had if he were going to match the other völva and come out on top. He was so stupid for using so much back at the hall. Such an  _ idiot.  _

The fire finally caught, roaring to life before him in a sputtering mass. Chrollo didn’t wait to congratulate himself. Instead, he raised his hand over it, whispering the words that would seek out the enemy and engage them. The cries and shouts of the angry men rose in the distance. Chrollo cursed again. They had caught up somehow, and that only added a note of urgency to the already tense mood. Gods, he had to move faster. He’d be completely defenseless once he started, and if he had to waste more energy now, he’d never be able to survive the fight that really mattered. 

Why had he done that to Silva? Why hadn’t he let him come along? As angry as he was with him, having the thanes would at least assure his protection. Chrollo spoke faster, scooping up a handful of dirt and blowing it into the flames, turning them an icy blue instead of a burning orange. It was too late to worry now, but the shouting was growing louder and louder and he was still nowhere close to being ready to begin. 

The moment the flames turned white was the same moment the pursuing men stepped into the clearing. Their swords gleamed as brightly as the flames, and Chrollo knew they saw what he was doing, no matter how he angled his body to hide the fire. “Kill it!” the one leading the charge bellowed, and it was instinct that made Chrollo throw up a hand, a gust of powerful wind throwing those in front back. A dozen men went flying, but a dozen more rose up behind them, ready to charge at him. Chrollo cursed under his breath, narrowly dodging an arrow that flew from the midst of the pack. Gods, he couldn’t do this. He was wasting power, but if he didn’t protect himself, he’d be dead in the blink of an eye. 

Should he just do it? Chrollo looked to the flames and then to the straining men kept at bay only by the thinnest barrier he could maintain. The wind tore at all who tried to approach, buckling their legs and driving them back into the trees. Stray arrows thudded into the dirt near him, cutting through the wind but only just. He didn’t know how long it would take to overwhelm the völva. He didn’t know how long he could maintain this barrier. Chrollo clutched at his hair and held back a scream. 

He didn’t know if he’d rather die at the hands of these men or be destroyed by the magic of the enemy völva. 

There was no time to make a decision either way. Chrollo felt the moment his barrier shattered, what little magic he’d given it eaten up by the relentless battering of the men. He drew his knife and reared back, cursing that he’d been caught on his knees like this. They were already charging though, and Chrollo knew it wouldn’t matter much since he’d be dead in a moment regardless. 

The world didn’t bother to slow down for Chrollo. There was no time to reflect on his life, or on his choices, or even on the guilt he felt at leaving Moop alone in a world that would see her dead as readily as it would see Chrollo. No, there was no time for introspection. Chrollo just watched the enormous, raging men race towards him with weapons drawn, and he wondered again if he shouldn’t have just chosen to stay in that prison instead. A quick execution would probably be less painful than whatever these brutes would do to him. Chrollo closed his eyes and lowered his knife. It was too late for any of that. 

It was too late to regret now.

Or it was until he heard the men begin to scream. Chrollo ripped open his eyes and took in the sight of one of the men bleeding from what had once been his arm, which was now only a stump. The warriors stopped their run for Chrollo, turning instead to take in the Jarl cutting through any in his path. Silva tore through those in front like a vision of hell made real. His sword gleamed and his hair shined as bright as the sun, and when he roared, a ripple of fear ran down Chrollo’s spine. He could only imagine how the enemy felt, given it was directed at them. 

“Silva!” Chrollo cried out, relief pouring through him. Somehow, he had found him just in the nick of time. 

“What are you waiting for, brat?” Silva shouted at him, swinging out wildly to ward off four men at once. “Do the damn ritual!”

Chrollo jumped and nodded, scrambling for the knife he had nearly dropped. “Hold them off for as long as you can!” he called, coaxing the fire back to fullness. He needed to get the fire white again and draw the runes into the dirt. He did both at once, though he knew it was foolish. Words long carved into his memory flowed from his lips like a long-forgotten song, the tip of his knife cutting the runes into the packed dirt at the fire’s base. The din of the fighting faded away, growing muddy as he gave in to the pervasive call of his magic.

_ Build the connection _ , his mother’s voice whispered, stirring the hair on the back of his neck.  _ Let your power call out to hers, and let yours build the battleground.  _

The fire grew white hot though it gave off no heat. The runes around the base glowed bright enough to sear, and Chrollo readied the blade to make himself bleed.  _ Good, good, _ his mother’s voice praised.  _ You’re almost there. _

“Chrollo! Move!” Silva screamed, and Chrollo looked up just in time to see the Jarl leap in front of a blade aimed for Chrollo’s head. It slashed across his chest with a sickeningly deep sound. Chrollo watched as Silva fell to his knees, his own sword plunging into the heart of the one who had struck him. Blood flecked the dirt. Silva’s sword fell, and then Silva did as well. 

It was too late to stop. It was too  _ late.  _ Chrollo slit his palm with the knife and plunged it into the cold flames, blind to everything but the power in his veins. There was no stemming the flow raging like a river swollen with floodwaters. Men shouted, bodies fell, arrows and blades tore through the frozen air– but Chrollo couldn’t care. There wasn’t enough of him left to care. 

Power took over when reason gave out, and that was all he could taste on his tongue as the spell words poured from his lips unbidden.  _ Kill them all,  _ he invoked to the spirit of vengeance guiding his hands.  _ Kill them all and rid this land of their touch.  _ The vision of Silva falling at his feet filled him to the brim, and Chrollo was gone, just a tool to be used by those who granted what he begged them to grant. 

The world shrank down to the size of a grain of sand, black and blue and a prism of color that held no name in this tongue. Chrollo felt no fear. There was none to be had here, not when there was work to be done. He knew she was here. The other völva was here, lurking somewhere in the folds of unknowable color, lurking and waiting and watching his grief like a vulture watches an animal about to die. The first wave of power he sent out was lobbed back at him tenfold, staggering his footing until he threatened to fall into the very fire he held. When he pressed at the other völva’s magic, he hadn’t expected to feel such harsh resistance. Of course, he knew that she would know the moment he began his assault. But to feel such abject hatred, such burning, targeted spite… She hated and burned and fought with a will that refused to balk. 

Compared to Chrollo’s own though, it was weak like watered down blood. “ _ I’m going to kill you,”  _ he whispered to her through the strands of silken magic. It connected them like threads on a loom, thickening with his hate. “ _ I’m going to kill you for all you’ve done.”  _

She snarled at him, words unintelligible. Another wave washed over him, nearly knocking him down. Chrollo could feel his hand bleeding, could hear the sizzle of his blood as if fell into the fire, her magic dragging like razorblades along his skin. 

_ “You’re already dead, boy,”  _ she whispered back.  _ “Just like that Jarl of yours.” _

How did she know? How could she know? 

Chrollo shoved back as hard as he could, dragging her into his web as he rammed against the curse work she had bled into the very earth he sat upon. She was old, powerful, frighteningly prepared– She had known he was coming, and she had taken steps to prepare against him.  _ “You will die, boy,”  _ she told him, voice matronly for all the fury it held.  _ “I have the gods on my side. They fill me with strength unimaginable-” _

_ “Shut the fuck up and  _ **_die_ ** _.”  _

It was just a shame that Chrollo didn’t give a damn about her or her power. Failure wasn’t even a thought in his head, not with the image of Silva burned into the blackness behind his eyes. Chrollo dug deep and let forth all he had, breaking through the völva’s flimsy, ramshackle wards as if they were mere flotsam against a rocky shore. 

_ “Stop, stop, STOP!”  _ he heard her scream through the magic. He could feel as well as hear though. Shock, horror, fear, cloying, sticky fear; Chrollo wondered where the gods had gone, if she had ever truly held them in her sway to begin with.  _ “You can’t!” _

Chrollo didn’t bother answering her. What right did she have to tell him to stop? What right did she have to curse an entire kingdom? He hoped Snorre paid her well for her work. He hoped she thought the pay worth it, because she was going to die here for it. His thoughts grew deafening, until they screamed between his ears with the force of a thunderclap. She screamed again, but there was no chance of it being heard over Chrollo’s fury. How many had died at the hands of her curse? How many families, how many  _ children _ ? Silva lay dying and this woman had the audacity to tell him to stop.

Silva lay dying at his feet. Chrollo had no taste for mercy.

He felt her feel him getting stronger. He felt her fear and he felt her astonishment. If Chrollo were in any mindset to be curious, he might wonder how he had managed to make his magic stronger. He might wonder how after all of that careless casting and forced use, he was still able to draw more from within. But, as it was, Chrollo didn’t care. All that mattered was his anger, his loss, and the petrified screams of the woman lashed to his rage.

What color there was in the battlefield he had wrought bled away. It dripped from the darkness like waterlogged ink until there was nothing left but ashy gray.  _ “How are you doing this?!”  _ the woman shrieked, her tears tinging the air with salt as if they were standing by the sea.  _ “You monster! You...You abomination!” _

He laughed. She screamed.  _ “You think that will hurt me?”  _ he asked, dragging her spirit closer by the thickening webs he’d woven her between.  _ “I’ve been called worse. I will always be called worse.”  _ With her here in his hands, he could almost see the whites of her terrified eyes. It was an illusion though. Here in the darkness, there was nothing left to see. Her life fizzled out with all the fanfare of a snuffed candle. The sickly touch of her magic faded away, and Chrollo only had a moment to rejoice before reality came crashing back in. 

He opened his eyes and the forest returned. For one blinding, pathetic moment, he wished he had stayed in the world behind his eyes. 

It was so quiet. So deathly quiet in the wake of all that had been and all that hadn’t. Chrollo fell onto his side and let out a sob that deafened in the silence, clutching at his hair with hands blackened by soot and char. It felt so horrible. There was nothing left in him: no magic, no power, no anger, no hatred, nothing nothing nothing… It screamed inside his head like a mantra:  _ Emptyemptyemptyempty _ **_empty-_ **

“Chro...llo,” a strangled voice whispered, ripping Chrollo from his spiralling fall. “Chrollo. Chrollo, can you hear… me?”

“...Silva?” Chrollo breathed, truly seeing for what felt like the first time in years. He didn’t have the strength to sit up, but he managed it somehow, taking in with growing horror the scene around him. The clearing was strewn with carnage, worse than any battlefield could ever boast. The trees bowed as if blown back from the epicenter of some great force. Scattered amongst the trunks lay shrivelled bodies, black and burnt and with faces that retained just enough humanity to convey the way they suffered as they died. Chrollo couldn’t tear his eyes from the gaping sockets that stared back at him. 

Had he done this? Had he done all of this? 

A groan brought him back. Chrollo jolted as if he’d been shocked, looking around frantically for the man who had taken a blade meant for him. He turned on his knees, tears pouring from his eyes when he caught sight of Silva a few feet away, laid out on the brittle, smoking loam. Were it not for the blood pouring from the wound on his side, Silva would look untouched in the wake of the maelstrom he entered. 

“Silva?” Chrollo called out, crawling frantically towards him, his body too shaky to risk standing. “Silva, Silva, why did you do that?” he croaked, voice so very very dry. With shaky hands, he reached out to cover the wound, pressing down hard to staunch the bleeding. 

Silva cried out weakly, his pale face turning towards Chrollo’s with eyes as blue as ice. His white-blond hair lay around his face, glistening in the meager sunlight like strands of spun starlight. “Chrollo,” he coughed, blood flecking his chin. “You’re alright?”

Chrollo hated him. He hated him so much. He felt another sob tear itself from his chest, his shoulder hitching. Tears spotted Silva’s chest, his wound, his cheek, but Chrollo couldn’t wipe them away without moving his hands from the wound. “You idiot,” he spat, hating this man so much. “You complete idiot. Why didn’t you leave me be? You’re going to die now.”

“You… did it,” Silva laughed, the sound so weak in light of all that the man embodied. “You stopped it all. You saved my people.” His hand shook as it moved, covering Chrollo’s on his chest. His touch was cold. So cold compared to what Chrollo knew it should be. Compared to what it had been that night. Silva smiled up at him, looking far too happy. “I’m just. Glad… So glad you’re okay.”

Chrollo clenched his hands in Silva’s shirt, his fingers sticky with blood. “I’m not okay,” he whispered. “How can I be okay? You’re dy...dying.” His voice broke on the word. “I’m going to heal you, so just hold on, okay?” Where was his bag? Why didn’t he bring his staff? The power from before was gone, leaving him as empty as a gaping hole. Chrollo looked around frantically, searching for the horse he’d stolen to get here, for the bag he’d always kept as his side but for the moment when he needed it most. Why had he left them both behind? Why hadn’t he planned for this possibility?

A petrified bleat caught him off balance, breaking him from the search as Moop raced out of the woods and into his arms. Chrollo grabbed her around the middle, lifting her little body to his chest to hold. “Oh, gods, Moop,” he gasped, rubbing his damp eyes against her soft fleece. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for leaving you back there.” He had no idea what would have happened to her if he’d kept her at his side, but he was so thankful to find her safe. The rope harness was in pieces as if she’d chewed through in a desperate bid to escape. 

She only stayed still for a moment, despite his desperate need for comfort. Moop bleated loudly, her neck craned to look down at Silva at their feet. Silva stared back at her, a weak smile on his face. “Hello, Moop,” he wheezed, his body hitching as another wave of pain tore through him. Chrollo felt ice flood his veins as he watched, knowing that there was no time to get distracted now. Silva needed him. He had to do something and fast. 

“Stay here with Silva, Moop,” he told her, setting her back down with hands that shook. He had to do something,  _ anything _ . For every moment he stayed, Silva lost more blood. His bag had to be nearby. Even if the horse did bolt, his bag should still be where he left it near Moop’s hollow, and even if it wasn’t, there might be some herbs in the forest that could help or even some hunter or traveler that could lend aid. Chrollo rose to his feet, staring out at the tree line with wide, frantic eyes. “I’ll be back,” he said without looking down, pressing down on Silva’s hand to maintain the pressure over his wound. Silva could manage for a few moments without him. There had to be something that could help nearby. There just had to be. 

His hand was seized in a grip threaded with iron but only for an instant. Chrollo looked at Silva’s pale face, taking the man’s hand in his own and putting it back down on his injury. “Silva?” he asked softly, trying his best to keep his panic to himself. “What is it? I’m just going to look for something to help-”

“Don’t,” Silva cut in, giving his head a terse shake. His gritted his teeth, his pain veiling his expression like a pall. “Please. Stay.”

Chrollo bit his lip. “But Silva,” he tried, his voice shaking. “Silva, I need to do something.” 

“Then stay with me,” he sighed, closing his eyes for a moment as he suffered through another bout of hacking, choking coughs. “I don’t…” Silva began once he’d regained his breath. He held tighter to Chrollo’s hand, though his grip was far from strong. “Please, don’t leave me alone.”

He couldn’t help it. Chrollo fell to his knees, cradling the hand in his own. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sound so vulnerable,” he tried to tease, but it fell so flat. His voice broke somewhere in the middle of it all, and he rubbed at his quickly dampening eyes, fighting the tears that threatened to fall in earnest. “It figures,” he said ruefully, “that you’d wait ‘til now to be a human being. Gods, Silva. I can’t just sit here and watch you die.”

“I’m sorry,” the Jarl said, staring up at Chrollo like he wanted the last thing he saw to be the witch’s messy face. “Chrollo, I’m sorry for… everything.”

It was so fucking rich of him, doing this now. Chrollo tried to glare at the Jarl, but it fell short somewhere in the middle. For all he hated Silva and his damn honor and...and his… Gods, Chrollo couldn’t do this now. Tears trickled down his cheeks, cutting through the filth no doubt on his skin. “You can’t just do that,” he said, seeing the moisture collecting in the corners of Silva’s own eyes. “You can’t just… Silva, don’t leave me alone like this.” He stared at Moop’s soft black face, watching her nuzzle Silva’s bloodied cheek. “You can’t leave us,” he whispered. 

Silva just gave his hand another squeeze. “I’m sorry,” he said again, like it meant anything at all given what he was doing to them both. “I’m sorry.”

If he were really sorry, he’d let Chrollo do something. He’d let him fucking  _ try _ . Chrollo brought their hands over Silva’s wound, pressing down again as if it might staunch what little blood still flowed. He hated Silva a little, for putting him through this. If Silva wouldn’t let him leave, then Chrollo would do what little he could here. What was there even here that he could do? No bag, no magic, no herbs, no help– Just a weak, useless völva with a small, motherless lamb. 

If Chrollo’s mother were still alive, she would know what to do. The thought made the tears gather even more in his eyes. She would know how to help him when all else had failed. Even when she was tired, she had known how to soothe Chrollo when sick or hurt or sad. Silva looked at him now like he didn’t care that Chrollo was useless and weak. He just looked at him steadily as if his presence was enough. 

It would never be enough. Chrollo hung his head. With a shaky breath, he did all he could think to do. 

“ _ I dreamt a dream last night, of silk and fine fur, _ ” Chrollo sang, his voice broken and weak. Silva’s eyes fell to half-mast, watching him with shock too weak to register. “ _ Icy Waves, cold dark sea. My...beloved,”  _ Chrollo stuttered, _ “back to me....back to me…” _

Confusion read in blue eyes, but Chrollo just shook his head, praying that the magic would come, that the power imbued in the words his mother sang would grant him enough strength to stem the flow of blood. That it might… That it might save him. Silva opened his mouth to argue, to question, to speak, and Chrollo dipped down, pressing their lips together before he could manage a single word. 

“Please,” he whispered against Silva’s lips. “Please, just let me try.”

“Chrollo-” Silva breathed, his voice just a sigh, and he tried to deepen the kiss. Chrollo pulled away though, crying all the harder now. 

“ _ Crashing waves top the prow, wind dragon wet fields plow,”  _ Chrollo sang, ignoring the sad look the Jarl gave him. His lips tingled from the kiss. “ _ Desert sand far from fjords, years away, far off shores.”  _ Moop looked up at Chrollo and then down at Silva, pacing nervously around his head. She’d always liked Silva, Chrollo thought unbidden. She had always been so happy to see him, hopping and leaping into his arms. She looked up at Chrollo when he choked on the next verse, letting out a concerned baa at the tears falling faster down his cheeks. 

_ “I will sing you home, gifts for safety come,”  _ Chrollo promised, feeling every inch the woman singing her husband home from sea. His mother had told him the story behind the words one night, but she had never told him if the woman saw her lover again. Silva’s hand was so cold. So very cold. Were those dogs he heard in the distance or just the wind howling through the trees above their heads? Chrollo forced himself to ignore it. He couldn’t afford to get distracted. His hands tingled, his chest constricting. 

“ _ Casting on, casting off,”  _ he began again, feeling his strength wane with his voice, “ _ crashing cut, cutting through.”  _ He let his voice rise and fall like the movements of an ocean calming. 

“Ch...Chrollo,” Silva gasped, pain wracking his handsome face. Blood frothed on his lips, and Moop cried as loudly as Chrollo, staring up at the witch as if to ask what was wrong. “Chrollo, I’m sorry…”

_ “Austri, vestr, sudri, nordri,”  _ he sang, holding tighter to Silva’s hand when he began to close his eyes. He couldn’t fall asleep! Chrollo cried but didn’t stop singing. Moop pawed nervously at Silva’s cheek, bleating in between every word as if begging Silva to play. Why wouldn’t he play with her? She looked to Chrollo again for the answers he couldn’t give her. The white fleece on her front was stained red with blood from trying to rouse the Jarl. 

_ “Radiho, othelo, eohl, tyr...” _ Chrollo cried, his voice fading into a weak whisper. Silva’s eyes fell shut, his hand lax atop of Chrollo’s. Chrollo rested his head atop his folded hands and prayed. His freedom wasn’t worth watching this happen.  _ “Back to me, lost at sea, back to me, victory…” _

There was nothing left to be done.

_ “My beloved, back to me...back to me…” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be an epilogue.


	9. Chapter 9

The breeze that ruffled his hair was as crisp and cool as springtime rain, and Chrollo closed his eyes for a moment to savor it as it passed him by. Gentle and sweet, it carried the scent of new growth and pure earth, untarnished and untainted by the foul remains of what had once nearly ruined this land. Chrollo sighed and opened his eyes, looking for Moop in the sea of flowers. It was nearly time to go, and postponing the inevitable would only make it hurt more. If Chrollo were being honest with himself, he felt he’d already been hurt enough as it was. 

It was hard to believe that a week had passed since the ritual. His magic had come back after a rest and some sleep, and reports had come in that those afflicted by the plague were seeing improvement that hadn’t existed before. Villages were repopulating, people were slowly leaving their fear behind, and Snorre’s presence had all but been eradicated in light of the kingdom’s reclaimed strength. Chrollo sighed and rubbed at his eyes, trying to see the familiar black snout amongst the sea of wildflowers before him. A curse had been lifted and the world moved on, licking at its wounds but not ruminating on all that had been lost. 

“Moop,” he called out, smiling a little when her small head popped up through the flowers, her ears flicking and nose alight with all the smells surrounding her. “Come on, baby. It’s time to go.” They had a long trip ahead of themselves. It wouldn’t do to waste any more daylight saying goodbye to the hall and fields. They had a new home to find. They had been kept from it for long enough as it was. 

Moop tossed her head and jumped through the flowers, staining her white belly yellow with pollen. She broke through the flowers and tumbled to a stop in front of Chrollo, baaing excitedly around Chrollo’s legs. Chrollo knelt down and held her small head in his hands, kissing her nose like she wanted. “You’ve gotten so big,” he sighed, picking stray petals out of her fleece. “Soon you’ll be too big for me to carry.” 

She sneezed at him as if to say that that could never, ever happen. Chrollo laughed and kissed her forehead, standing back up with a sigh. “We should get going, Moop,” he told her, smiling sadly at her. “We have a lot of ground to cover before nightfall.”

For a moment, it looked like Moop was listening. That is, up until she looked somewhere behind Chrollo, ears twitching and posture shifting excitedly. Movement caught his eye, and Chrollo turned too, narrowing his eyes in the bright light to see the silhouette of a man approaching them, hand up and waving to get his attention. Was it a guard? Chrollo had tried to leave as unobtrusively as possible so as to avoid this kind of thing happening. Looking down at Moop, he weighed his options. If he grabbed Moop and ran, could he discourage a confrontation?

Moop sneezed again, her nose completely covered in the pollen that speckled her fleece. It only took her a moment to make a decision regarding the approaching man, and the moment she did, she took off towards him before Chrollo could so much as grab her. “Moop!” he shouted, grabbing up his staff and jogging off after her. “Come back here!”

Of course, she didn’t listen. Chrollo watched the man stoop down to meet her, scooping her up and under his arm. The sun chose that moment to come out from behind the clouds, glinting off the man’s brilliant white-gold hair. Chrollo slowed his run into a weary walk, a bubble of anxiety taking root in the pit of his stomach. It was just Silva, he realized. He almost wished it had been some thane instead. Now, a confrontation was inevitable. 

Chrollo sighed. Of course, he couldn’t just leave without this. He looked up and met eyes with the approaching man, managing a weak smile that belied the pain in his heart. Silva just had to make this harder than it needed to be. He wouldn’t be Silva if he didn’t. 

“Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?” the Jarl huffed, out of breath from the walk. The cane he was using to keep himself upright only did so much to ease his strain, and lugging Moop under his arm only added to it. As small as she still was, she had gained considerable weight, enough that it made it hard to carry her comfortably, wounded or not. Silva should still be in bed, Chrollo thought, instead of out here chasing Chrollo before he could make his escape. 

Chrollo avoided his eye, holding himself a little. He rested his cheek against his staff, choosing to watch Moop dance around Silva’s feet the moment she was sat down again. She at least seemed more than eager to prolong their goodbye. “I thought it might be easier this way,” he said quietly, flicking his gaze up to meet Silva’s. “You should have stayed in bed. You’re not strong enough to be running about like this yet.”

Silva furrowed his brow, giving him a wry look. “You didn’t give me much choice. I wanted to see you off properly,” he insisted, his voice growing somber. “If you really are...leaving. Chrollo, I know you have your own plans, but reconsider-”

Holding up a hand, Chrollo stopped him before he could finish. “I have to go,” he told him, staring into Silva’s blindingly blue eyes. It was a mistake to, though. They looked right through him, pinning him in place in hopes of keeping him within reach. “I’m not meant to stay,” Chrollo said after a moment of painful introspection. “This isn’t my home.”

“It could be,” Silva tried, refusing to lose with grace. “You saved my kingdom. No one will look upon you with anything but respect. Please,” he said, his voice growing soft. He held out a hand, taking Chrollo’s gently. “Stay. With me.”

Chrollo was thankful for Moop when she broke the tension with a needy bleat because he felt he might do something stupid like agree if he let Silva hold his hand for a moment longer. Pulling away, Chrollo let Silva’s hand fall back down to his side. “Our paths crossed for a reason, Silva,” he said softly, kneeling down to give Moop the attention she wanted. “I think you need to discover the reason for yourself.” Looking up at the Jarl, he managed a small smile. “Maybe the future will see fit to cross our paths again. But, until then…”

Silva sighed. “You have to go,” he finished tiredly. 

“I do.” If he kept his eyes on Moop, this didn’t feel as painful as it could be. She at least looked happy, not seeing the goodbye for what it was. Moop looked from Chrollo to up at Silva, pink tongue out like a dog’s as she caught her breath. Chrollo kissed her ears, praying she might forgive him someday for taking her from Silva. 

“At least…” Silva began, stealing back Chrollo’s attention. He knelt down carefully, resting a large hand on Moop’s back. “At least let me grant you something. Anything. If it’s in my power, let me do it for you.”

“You’d have better luck asking Moop,” Chrollo laughed a little, folding his hands in his lap as Silva played with the lamb. “I don’t need much in this life.”

Silva gave him a look, but he did look down to Moop, scratching behind her ears until she wagged her short tail happily. Dropping his cane beside him, he tugged at his wrist, pulling off one of his many braided bracelets. “She deserves all I can give her as well,” Silva said, meeting Chrollo’s eyes as he looped the braided rope around the lamb’s front leg, tying it snuggly around her foot. “Please, Chrollo. Is there nothing I can do for you? To make up for all I’ve done. For all you’ve been through.”

Moop looked so happy with her gift. She paraded around them both happily, showing it off with a few skips and jumps. Chrollo bit his lip, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. Silva was asking him to be greedy when Chrollo had never known the feeling before. Glancing up at Silva, Chrollo wondered if he had the right to be now. He wondered if nearly dying had given Silva the clarity he’d always lacked and Chrollo the perspective he never thought he needed. 

“There’s something, isn’t there?” Silva read, letting his hand rest on Chrollo’s arm. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it. If it’s money you want I’ll give it. If it’s land, power, wealth…”

Chrollo mumbled something, knowing Silva didn’t hear. He kept his eyes on the ground, on Moop’s innocent eyes and Silva’s bare wrist. Stupid. 

“Chrollo?” Silva whispered, taking him under the chin to make Chrollo meet his eye. “What did you say?”

He bit his lip, wishing the world was different. “I said,” Chrollo whispered back, looking into startling blue eyes. “Can you kiss me?”

Silva froze, his eyes wide and surprised. 

Chrollo nearly laughed. This was so stupid. He brushed away Silva’s hand and moved to turn away. There were miles to go yet before nightfall, he repeated to himself. He needed to take Moop and move; they had to find a place to stay for the night and then a place to stay permanently. A place where they could live unbothered and unknown. One where they could belong, unlike here, where they didn’t-

Warm lips covered Chrollo’s before he could process he’d been turned back to face the Jarl. A soft tongue, a careful press, and Chrollo closed his eyes, letting Silva cradle his cheek and deepen the kiss into something he’d never quite experienced before. The cane fell to the ground in a muted clatter and Chrollo found himself pulled against Silva’s firm chest, the ghostly heat of his wound lying just beneath the cover of his clothing.

So close, he thought, tangling his hands in the Jarl’s long, warm hair. He’d been so close to letting Silva die. 

Neither wanted the kiss to end. Once it ended, so would they. Chrollo would leave with Moop and never look back, and Silva would remain in his lofty hall, surrounded by the men who respected him. Who would never respect the one he held in his arms now. Chrollo clenched his eyes shut and tried to hold out when he had no more breath to spare. Just one more moment, he begged the gods. Just let him have one moment more. 

But it wasn’t meant to be. Chrollo broke the kiss and buried his face in Silva’s chest, gasping and fighting off the tears he hadn’t wanted to shed. Strong arms wrapped around him, holding him there, but Chrollo knew that even that had to end sometime. Soft fur brushed his cheek, soft lips kissed his hair, and Chrollo whispered a blessing against Silva’s covered heart, protecting it for when he was no longer there to do it himself. 

“You will always be welcome in my hall,” Silva murmured, kissing Chrollo’s eyes when the tears threatened to fall. “Both of you.”

“I know,” he said, pulling himself free from the Jarl’s arms. He wiped at his eyes, pretending he didn’t see the same in Silva’s. “Moop, come here,” Chrollo called, picking her up under his arm. He knew she wouldn’t follow with Silva so near. She, if nothing else, was more honest than Chrollo. Silva’s hand fell to her head, scratching her small, bent ear one last time. 

The sight of his hand, both so gentle and tender, was disheartening and comforting in equal measure. There was promise in that hand. Potential. But Chrollo just sighed, knowing the decision had already been made. He’d said it and Silva repeated it; there was nothing left to do but turn and make good on it. The first steps were always the hardest, he told himself, leaving the Jarl and his hall behind. They would get easier, though. Someday.

“Take care, brat,” Silva called out. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

A smile teased at his lips, and Chrollo didn’t look back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, we made it! i know a few of you guys didn't think you'd make it though alive, but here we are, battered but not yet broken. figured I'd take some time here to talk about the project since it was a pretty emotionally draining experience for me too. 
> 
> this started out as an idea given to me by amoderndivide over on tumblr back in november? i think of last year. it stayed with me and germinated into this massive universe and i really let my imagination run wild, to the point where i realized the only way i was going to write it would be for a big bang. i needed the excuse and it came, so here we are. i've got plans to turn this into its own book, kinda how i did for brontide way back when. i wrote this with the idea of it being a book from the start, so it might have read a little differently than my other fics because of it. this is about half of the story. once i get around to doing the full thing, it'll have another entire arc to it where they combat snorre together while silva is recovering from his wounds. the end result will be the same, but the road there will be longer. expect to see news on this book probably next year! im excited to work on it after tempest stuff wraps up.
> 
> anyway, thank you guys for sticking it out to the end. i think it was a painful experience but one that needed to be experienced. stay tuned for news on my next projects over on my tumblr and keep an eye out for the awesome art coming for this fic! i'll be sure to include links here once it's up. 
> 
> as always, leave a nice comment letting me know what you thought! until next time~


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